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Page  330. 


JUDGE    BURNHAM'S 
DAUGHTERS 


BY 

PANSY 


author    of  "Christie's  Christmas,"    "a    hedge   fence,"  "Gertrude's 

diary,"  "the  man  of  the  house,"  "interrupted,"  "  the  hall 

in  the  grove,"  "  an  endless  chain,"  "  mrs.  solomon  smith 

looking  on,"  "  four  girls  at  chautauqua,"  "  ruth 

erskine's  crosses,"  "  spun  from  fact,"  "  little 

fishers  :  and  their  nets,"  "  eigh tv-seven," 

ETC, ETC 


BOSTON 

D    LOTHROP    COMPANY 

FRANKLIN    AND    HAWLEY   STREETS 


Copyright,  18S8 

by 

D.  Lothrop  Company. 


SRLF 

.     URL 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

AFTER    SIX    YEARS I 

CHAPTER   II. 

PLANTS    THAT    HAD    BLOSSOMED  .  .  .  1 4 

CHAPTER   III. 

LOGIC   AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS  .  .  26 

CHAPTER   IV. 

UNWELCOME   RESPONSIBILITIES      ....  39 

CHAPTER   V. 
"forewarned"  and  "forearmed"        .        .        51 

CHAPTER  VI. 
DRIFTING 64 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   UNEXPECTED 77 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

SLIPPERY    GROUND  ......  89 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   IX. 

THE   OLD   QUESTION IOI 

CHAPTER   X. 

COMING    TO   AN    UNDERSTANDING  .  .  113 

CHAPTER   XI. 

"W.   C.   T.    17."  126 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   DEED    FOR   THE   WILL  ....         138 

CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE   WISDOM    OF   THIS   WORLD       .  .  .  .         150 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

A   TROUBLESOME   "  YOUNG   PERSON"      .  .  .         163 

CHAPTER   XV. 
"all  come!  "  176 

CHAPTER   XVI. 

ON    THE   MOUNT   AND    IN    THE   VALLEY  .  .         188 

CHAPTER   XVII. 

A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING  ....  201 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 

STORMY    WEATHER 213 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   XIX. 

WAITING 226 

CHAPTER  XX. 

BELATED   WORK 238 

CHAPTER   XXI. 

TRANSFORMATION 25 1 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

DAYS   OF   PRIVILEGE  .....         263 

CHAPTER   XXIII. 
"o,  mamma!  good-by  ! "  ....       275 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 
"next  most"  287 

CHAPTER   XXV. 

A    WAITING    WORKER  299 

CHAPTER   XXVI. 

UNDER   GUIDANCE 31I 

CHAPTER   XXVII. 

AT    HOME  .  324 


JUDGE   BURNHAM'S 
DAUGHTERS 


CHAPTER   I. 

AFTER    SIX    YEARS. 


MRS.  BURNHAM  stood  by  the  west  window 
of  the  long,  low-ceiled  room,  looking  out 
into  the  grim  and  desolate  twilight.  The  day  had 
been  rainy,  the  clouds  having  hung  low  and  gray 
ever  since  the  early  morning,  and  the  faint  gleams 
of  crimson  and  gold  with  which  the  west  had  tried 
to  lighten  the  scene  just  at  sunset,  had  been  quickly 
overcast,  and  gray  mist  was  fast  enveloping  the 
earth  once  more. 

On  the  street  were  to  be  seen  only  the  hurrying 
umbrellas  of  a  few  belated  people,  and  the  fast- 
running  water  from  overcharged  gutters  by  the 
roadside. 

Certainly  nothing  in  the  prospect  need  have 
held  Mrs.  Burnham's  steady  gaze,  yet  she  stood 
quite  still  and  looked  outward  with  far-reaching 
eyes  that  did  not  seem  to  see  what  was  spread 
before  them.     She  was  not  alone ;  a  small  boy  in 


2  AFTER    SIX    YEARS. 

kilts  and  curls  hovered  restlessly  from  her  side  to 
the  grate,  to  the  south  window,  to  the  niche  which 
held  the  piano,  where  the  firelight  made  fantastic 
shadows,  back  to  her  side  again,  ever  steadily  ply- 
ing her  with  questions  the  while  :  — 

"  Mamma,  isn't  it  time  to  light  the  gas  ? 
Mamma,  why  don't  Seraph  and  Minta  come  ? 
Mamma,  can  you  see  papa  coming  down  the 
street  ?  Mamma,  isn't  it  almost  time  for  dinner  ? 
O,  mamma !  won't  you  please  not  look  out  the 
window  any  more,  and  come  and  amuse  your  little 
boy  ?  he's  so  tired  !  " 

With  the  last  appeal  Mrs.  Burnham  turned,  a 
faint  smile  appearing  on  her  pale,  grave  face. 

"Is  my  little  boy's  tongue  tired?"  she  asked; 
"  mamma  doesn't  wonder  if  it  is,  you  have  kept 
it  so  busy  to-day." 

But  she  moved  from  the  window,  waiting  only 
to  draw  the  curtains  close,  then  crossing  the  room 
with  the  boy  by  the  hand,  dropped  into  an  easy 
chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  which  suddenly  shot  up 
gleams  of  light,  revealing  the  fair  head  of  the  child 
as  he  leaned  against  her  knee.  His  thoughts  had 
taken  a  new  turn. 

"Mamma,  tongues  don't  get  tired  like  hands 
and  feet,  do  they  ?  And  they  don't  have  to  be 
washed,  and  have  clothes  put  on  them.  Wouldn't 
it  be  a  funny  thing  if  they  had  to  wear  clothes  ? " 

He  laughed  merrily  at  the  queerness  of  his  own 
conceit,  and  the  mother  smiled  on  him,  and  played 


AFTER    SIX    YEARS.  3 

lovingly  with  the  curls  about  his  head  ;  but  after  a 
moment  it  was  almost  as  trying  to  the  child  as  the 
position  by  the  window  had  been,  for  she  fixed  her 
steady  gaze  on  the  fire,  and  seemed  to  go  on  with 
thoughts  which  were  apart  from  him. 

To  his  great  satisfaction  there  was  an  interrup- 
tion in  the  shape  of  a  quick  tread  down  the  hall ; 
the  door  swung  open,  and  Judge  Burnham  ap- 
peared, being  greeted  by  the  boy  with  a  shout  of 
delight. 

"  Glooming  in  the  dark  ? "  he  asked,  as  he  came 
forward  and  touched  his  lips  lightly  to  his  wife's 
cheek.  "  What  is  the  matter  with  the  gas  ? 
Young  gentleman,  why  didn't  you  light  the  gas 
for  your  mother  ?  " 

This  to  the  happy  boy,  who  was  promptly 
perched  on  his  shoulder,  and,  under  instructions, 
flooded  the  room  with  soft  yellow  light.  A  beau- 
tiful room  it  was ;  evidences  of  cultured  taste  and 
unlimited  means  were  apparent  on  every  hand. 
A  long  room,  which  might  perhaps  have  looked 
narrow,  had  not  its  length  been  broken  into  here 
and  there  by  graceful  alcoves  and  niches ;  car- 
peted in  tints  of  green  which  bordered  on  the 
yellow  just  enough  to  suggest  the  sun  at  its  set- 
ting ;  reveling  in  couches  and  easy  chairs  and 
low  rockers,  and  abounding  in  books  and  magazines 
and  the  late  papers  ;  a  perfect  home  room  :  not 
stately  nor  elegant,  only  easy  and  graceful.  The 
gaslight  revealed  more  plainly  the    pallor  of   the 


4  AFTER    SIX    YEARS. 

lady's   face,  and   her   husband,  who   studied   her 
closely  for  a  moment,  seemed  to  notice  it. 

"  Are  you  well  to-night,  Ruth  ?  I  believe  you 
look  paler  than  ever." 

"  As  well  as  usual,  thank  you." 

Her  voice  was  low  and  quiet ;  composed,  rather 
than  cheerful. 

"The  weather  is  wretched  enough  to  make  peo- 
ple feel  miserable,"  he  said,  standing  with  his  back 
to  the  glowing  grate,  and  bringing  the  boy  to  a 
sitting  posture  on  his  shoulder;  "and  you  keep 
housed  up  altogether  too  much  for  your  health. 
Where  are  the  girls  ?  " 

"They  went  to  Madame  Reno's  reception." 

"They  did  !  "  spoken  in  a  slightly  startled  tone. 
"With  whom?" 

"They  went  quite  alone,  Judge  Burnham.  I 
was  given  to  understand  that  such  was  your 
pleasure." 

The  husband  laughed  slightly. 

"  Well,  hardly  my  pleasure ;  I  should  prefer,  of 
course,  that  they  have  company.  I  had  forgotten 
that  this  was  the  afternoon  for  the  reception. 
However,  I  could  not  have  left  the  office  to-day  if 
I  had  remembered ;  and  since  you  did  not  go,  of 
course  I  suppose  there  was  nothing  left  for  them' 
but  to  go  alone." 

Mrs.  Burnham  looked  up  at  him  half  depreca- 
tingly,  then  gave  a  significant  glance  at  the  deep 
black  of  her  dress. 


AFTER    SIX    YEARS.  5 

"You  surely  did  not  expect  me  to  attend  the 
reception,  Judge  Burnham  ? "  The  sentence  closed 
with  the  rising  inflection,  yet  had  hardly  the  tone 
of  a  question. 

The  Judge  turned  on  his  heel  with  a  gesture 
that  might  have  meant  impatience,  opened  his 
mouth  as  if  to  speak,  then  seemed  to  think  better 
of  it.  After  a  moment  came  this  sentence  with  a 
half-laugh  :  — 

"  No,  I  cannot  be  said  to  have  expected  it "  (with 
a  marked  emphasis  on  the  word  "expected"). 
"  What  I  may  have  desired  is  another  question. 
Has  this  boy  been  out  to-day  ?" 

The  boy  answered  for  himself. 

"  No,  papa ;  it  has  been  an  ugly  east  wind  all 
day,  and  mamma  was  afraid  of  my  cough." 

"  Nonsense  !  You  haven't  enough  cough  to  hurt 
a  mosquito.  You  coddle  him  altogether  to  much, 
Ruth  ;  you  will  have  him  as  frail  as  a  lily." 

"  He  was  quite  hoarse  this  morning,  Judge 
Burnham." 

The  mother's  voice  was  almost  beseeching  now, 
but  the  husband  did  not  notice  it. 

"  What  if  he  was  ?  A  child  has  to  breathe,  even 
when  hoarse  ;  and  to  breathe  heated  air  all  day 
vitiates  the  blood  and  weakens  the  lungs.  Get 
your  coat  and  hat,  my  boy,  and  I'll  take  a  run 
with  you  on  the  piazzas ;  that  will  be  better  than 
nothing." 

As  he  spoke,  he  placed  the  little  fellow  on  his 


6  AFTER    SIX    YEARS. 

feet.  But  the  child,  instead  of  running,  turned 
anxious  eyes  on  his  mother  and  hesitated. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  will  worry  mamma,  and  I  can  stay 
in  the  house  a  whole  week  if  she  wants  me  to." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  in  a  sharp  tone  now.  "  Get  your 
hat  at  once ;  it  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  decide 
these  questions." 

Then  Mrs.  Burnham's  voice,  lower  than  before, 
quiet,  and  perfectly  controlled,  "  Don't  keep  papa 
waiting,  Erskine ;  your  little  coat  is  in  the  lower 
drawer  in  papa's  dressing-room  —  the  gray  one, 
dear." 

It  was  a  heavier  garment  than  had  been  worn  as 
yet  this  fall,  and  Judge  Burnham  laughed  at  the 
boy  for  being  bundled  up  like  a  little  old  man 
when  he  came  back  presently  robed  in  the  gray 
coat. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  not  come  with  us,"  he  said, 
his  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

Mrs.  Burnham  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 

"  Not  to-night,  thank  you  ;  I  don't  like  the  east 
wind  ;  it  seems  to  me  unusually  penetrating." 

"  That  is  because  you  have  toasted  yourself 
beside  a  coal  fire  all  day." 

Then  the  door  closed  and  she  was  alone.  She 
sat  still,  staring  straight  into  that  coal  fire  with 
wide-open,  grave  eyes  ;  staring  away  beyond  the 
fire ;  seeing  images  that  drew  no  smile  to  her 
face  ;  listening  the  while  to  the  boy's  merry  voice, 
broken  by  an  occasional  cough,  as  with  rapid  feet 


AFTER    SIX    YEARS.  7 

he  tried  to  keep  up  with  his  father's  long  strides. 
The  dinner-bell  pealing  through  the  house  inter- 
rupted the  promenaders,  and  at  the  same  moment 
a  carriage  returned  the  young  ladies  to  their  own 
door.  A  little  later  and  the  family  gathered  in  the 
dining-room.  If  you  have  read  "  Ruth  Erskine's 
Crosses  "  you  possibly  remember  the  first  family 
gathering  in  the  Burnham  dining-room.  If  you 
do  not,  may  I  ask  that  you  will  look  up  the  book 
and  glance  over  its  history,  that  you  may  have  the 
pleasure  of  contrasting  the  two  scenes  ? 

A  more  marked  contrast,  having  to  do  with  the 
same  house  and  the  same  people,  could  hardly 
be  imagined.  Yet  I  call  it  the  same  house  more 
from  courtesy  than  reality.  The  framework  was 
the  same,  and  the  old-fashioned  ceilings  were  the 
same,  but  the  house  had  been  added  to  and  taken 
from,  until  Mrs.  Ferris,  whom  you  will  possibly 
remember,  recognized  it  no  longer  as  "  the  old 
place."  An  L  had  been  built  on  here,  and  a  bay 
window  thrown  out  there,  and  a  side  porch  added  to 
the  south  door,  and  broad  piazzas  surrounded  the 
house.  Within,  windows  reaching  to  the  floor,  and 
paint  and  paper  and  furniture,  had  so  changed  the 
original  scene  that  the  dining-room  of  the  present, 
though  having  the  same  floor  as  the  one  that 
belonged  to  the  past,  had  no  other  external  that 
was  the  same.  A  lovely  dining-room,  with  the 
table  set  with  every  possible  modern  appointment, 
and  served  by  a  trained  waiter  with  exquisite  care. 


8  AFTER    SIX    YEARS. 

To  these  things  Ruth  Burnham  had  been  used  all 
her  life.  But  of  the  three  she  was  really  much 
less  fastidious  than  were  the  young  ladies,  Miss 
Seraph  and  Miss  Minta.  What  pretty  girls  they 
were  !  Mrs.  Burnham,  glancing  at  them  across  the 
table,  could  not  help  thinking  so  at  this  moment. 
Graceful,  well-bred,  faultlessly  dressed  in  the  very 
extreme  of  fashionable  attire,  and  voluble  after 
the  fashion  of  society  young  ladies,  over  the  last 
excitement  of  the  day. 

"And,  papa,  that  young  Pole  was  there  whom 
we  met  at  the  Harpers,  you  remember.  Seraph 
made  quite  a  sensation  promenading  with  him.  I 
assure  you  she  was  the  center  of  all  eyes." 

"That  is  not  surprising,"  Judge  Burnham  said, 
bestowing  an  admiring  glance  on  the  tall,  graceful 
girl,  with  a  wealth  of  reddish  yellow  hair  arranged 
with  reference  to  the  latest  ideas  concerning  hair, 
which  ideas  chanced  to  be  very  becoming  to  her 
face. 

She  received  her  sister's  charge  and  her  father's 
compliment  with  equal  composure. 

"  It  was  all  because  of  the  Pole,  papa.  If  I 
hadn't  been  honored  with  his  attentions,  I  should 
have  been  lost  to  view  entirely.  Minta  was  the 
favorite  most  of  the  afternoon.  That  massive  Dr. 
Dorchester,  who  offers  compliments  much  as  an 
elephant  might,  assured  me  that  '  your  sister  is 
even  more  brilliant  than  usual  to-day,  and  that  is 
unnecessary.'  " 


AFTER    SIX    YEARS.  9 

The  "  brilliant  "  young  sister,  whose  bright  eyes 
flashed  fun  and  fire  at  once,  went  off  into  a  series 
of  graceful  little  giggles  over  this  ponderous 
compliment. 

"  Papa,  I  didn't  say  a  witty  thing  this  afternoon. 
I  was  studiedly  stupid,  and  they  laughed  over  the 
stupidest  things  as  though  they  were  very  amusing. 
I  do  think  people  can  be  the  silliest  when  they  get 
certain  ideas  into  their  minds." 

"  You  see  what  it  is  to  have  a  reputation,  my 
daughter." 

Nothing  could  be  fuller  of  satisfied  pride  than 
Judge  Burnham's  tones.  Indeed,  it  would  not 
have  needed  close  observation  to  discover  that 
this  father  was  both  fond  and  proud  of  his  two 
beautiful  daughters.  Whether  he  occasionally  re- 
membered the  frights  they  were  when  he  brought 
home  his  bride,  barely  six  years  ago,  is  doubtful ; 
men  forget  so  soon  and  so  entirely,  when  it  is  con- 
venient and  satisfactory  to  do  so.  Yet,  remember- 
ing, I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  have  thought 
it  very  surprising.  He  might  have  looked  upon 
it  as  an  altogether  natural,  and  to  be  expected, 
development,  from  daughters  belonging  to  the 
Burnham  name  and  blood.  Fifteen  and  seven- 
teen very  often  give  little  hint  of  what  twenty-one 
and  twenty-three  will  be.  Mrs.  Burnham,  how- 
ever, remembered  ;  recalled  often,  vividly  and 
in  detail,  the  picture  of  those  two  uncouth,  ill- 
dressed,  ill-shaped,  frightened  girls  as  they  came 


TO  AFTER    SIX    YEARS. 

to  her  in  the  rag-carpeted  front  room,  not  quite 
six  years  ago.  She  thought  of  it  to-night  ;  some 
sudden  motion  of  the  head  by  the  beauty,  Miss 
Minta,  a  motion  peculiar  to  her,  extreme  in  its 
awkwardness  once,  softened  into  an  actual  charm 
now,  recalled  to  Mrs.  Burnham  the  hour  and  the 
scene  in  all  its  embarrassing  details,  and  she  did 
what  Judge  Burnham  in  these  days  never  thought 
of  doing  in  connection  with  his  daughters :  she 
drew  a  long,  low  sigh. 

The  dinner-table  talk  went  on  in  much  the 
same  strain  that  I  have  indicated.  Who  were 
at  the  reception ;  who  were  conspicuous  by  their 
dress,  or  their  manner  ;  what  the  Harpers  thought 
of  the  entertainment ;  why  the  Tremaines  were 
not  there,  and  a  dozen  other  trifles  discussed 
with  a  zest  which  belongs  only  to  society  lov- 
ers. Always  the  talk  was  addressed  to  papa. 
Throughout  the  meal  Mrs.  Burnham  was  almost 
entirely  silent,  answering  the  remarks  addressed 
to  her,  by  her  husband,  only  in  quiet  monosylla- 
bles. Not  apparently,  however,  for  any  other 
reason  than  because  the  remarks  themselves  called 
for  no  other  answer  ;  these  being  confined  almost 
exclusively  to  questions  as  to  whether  she  would 
have  more  of  this  or  that  delicacy.  She  gave 
careful  attention  to  Erskine's  wants,  but  did  not 
talk  even  with  him.  This,  however,  was  not 
noticeable,  for  the  boy  had  been  taught  to  be 
almost  entirely  silent   at   the   tabic,  and   he  was 


AFTER    SIX    YEARS.  II 

apparently  absorbed  in  listening  to  and  enjoying 
his  pretty  sisters. 

Before  the  second  course  was  concluded,  Miss 
Seraph  examined  her  watch  with  an  exclamation 
of  dismay. 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  late.  Papa,  we  must 
call  on  the  Forsythes  for  a  moment  to-night ; 
Tremaine  is  to  leave  town  to-morrow  morning. 
I  told  him  we  would  call.  Now,  papa  dear,  don't 
frown  ;  you  really  must  be  the  victim  to-night. 
Horace  Wells  wanted  to  call  for  us,  but  Minta 
gave  him  such  a  decided  negative  that  he  didn't 
dare  to  say  anything  about  it  to  me." 

"  Well,  he  is  such  a  bore,  papa.  I  would  much 
rather  have  you." 

"Thank  you,  "  Judge  Burnham  said,  with  a  low 
bow,  and  an  amused  smile.  "I  am  not  disposed 
to  frown,  young  ladies ;  I  am  quite  willing  to 
attend  you.  I  suppose,  Ruth,  there  is  no  use  in 
asking  you  to  join  us  ?  " 

Another  of  those  sentences  closing  with  the 
rising  inflection,  yet  spoken  in  a  tone  which  makes 
a  negative  reply  almost  a  necessity. 

"  O,  no!  thank  you.    I  will  remain  with  Erskine." 

Miss  Seraph  laughed.  "  What  a  question,  papa ! 
I  should  almost  as  soon  expect  one  of  the  marble 
busts  in  the  library  to  go  out  with  you  as  mamma. 
O,  mamma!  that  reminds  me;  Dr.  Westwood 
asked  to-day  if  you  were  going  into  a  decline,  that 
you  were  seen  so  little  in  society." 


12  AFTER   SIX   YEARS. 

"  Yes,  and  I  was  guilty  of  the  only  pun  I  marie 
this  afternoon,  "  chimed  in  Miss  Minta.  "  I  told 
him  you  had  quite  declined  society,  of  late  ;  that 
that  was  all  the  decline  we  knew  of." 

Judge  Burnham  did  not  laugh  at  this,  but  be- 
stowed a  somewhat  sharp,  searching  look  on 
Ruth's  pale  face,  where  a  little  touch  of  crimson 
was  glowing  now.  "  Is  Joan  disabled,  that  she 
can  not  have  the  care  of  Erskine  ?"  he  asked,  and 
there  was  a  curious  sharpness  in  his  voice. 

"Joan?  O,  no!  but  I  do  not  choose  to  leave 
Erskine  with  her,  you  know.  Shall  we  adjourn  to 
the  library,  Judge  Burnham  ?  " 

A  few  moments  more  and  the  father  and  daugh- 
ters had  departed,  leaving  mother  and  son  alone 
together. 

The  boy  was  very  quiet  and  sweet  and  loving, 
exerting  all  his  small  powers  for  the  manifest 
purpose  of  entertaining  his  mother ;  and  she 
smiled  on  him,  and  allowed  herself  to  be  enter- 
tained. It  was  when  he  was  settled  in  his  lace- 
canopied  crib  in  the  lovely  pink  room  which 
opened  out  from  Ruth's  lovely  blue  one,  that  he 
put  up  his  small  hand  and  patted  her  cheek,  and 
said  :  "  Dear  mamma,  did  it  worry  you  to  have  me 
go  and  walk  to-night  ?  I  couldn't  help  it,  you 
know  ;  and  I'll  try  not  to  cough.  I  wouldn't  have 
gone  if  I  could  have  helped  it." 

Mrs.  Burnham  stooped  and  kissed  the  full, 
sweet  lips,  and  held  the  caressing  hand  in  a  sud- 


AFTER    SIX    YEARS.  1 3 

den  strong  grasp  ;  but  her  voice  was  quick  and 
firm  :  "  Of  course  not,  my  little  foolish  boy  ;  it 
is  always  right  to  obey  papa.  Qood-night,  my 
darling." 

She  went  away  from  him  at  once,  out  into  the 
blue  room,  and  sat  down  before  the  open  grate, 
and  let  her  hands  drop  idly  in  her  lap,  and  let 
great  hot  tears  plash  down  on  the  hands.  There 
must  be  no  tears  before  the  large-eyed  boy.  But 
there  was  no  one  to  watch  her  now. 


14       PLANTS  THAT  HAD  BLOSSOMED. 


CHAPTER   II. 

PLANTS    THAT    HAD    BLOSSOMED. 

NOW  you  know  as  well  as  though  I  had  written 
a  volume  to  tell  you  about  it,  that  Mrs.  Judge 
Burnham's  life  had  not  yet  settled  into  peace. 
Indeed,  it  was  so  very  far  from  peace,  that  her 
wise-eyed  son,  child  though  he  was,  understood, 
perfectly,  that  his  mother  was  sad-hearted  and 
troubled.  Yet  had  Mrs.  Burnham  been  called 
upon  to  tell  her  life  story  as  it  had  been  lived 
in  the  past  five  years,  it  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult, perhaps  impossible,  for  her  to  have  explained 
how  she  reached  the  spot  where  she  now  seemed 
stranded,  so  insensibly  had  she  drifted  thither. 
You  remember  with  what  strong  purpose  of  soul 
she  took  up  life  anew,  at  the  bedside  of  her  baby, 
when  God  gave  him  back  to  her,  after  the  last 
hope  had  vanished  ?  She  had  by  no  means  for- 
gotten it.  Eagerly,  I  might  almost  say  fiercely,' 
had  she  tried  to  live  the  resolves  born  in  that 
solemn  hour.  The  sorrowful  part  of  it  was,  that 
her  husband  had  been  through  no  such  experience; 
had  made  no  such  resolves ;   did  not  understand 


PLANTS    THAT    HAD    BLOSSOMED.  1 5 

his  wife,  and  had  no  sympathy  with  the  desires 
that  filled  her  soul.  His  sorrow  had  been  heavy, 
his  anxiety  intense  —  or,  perhaps,  fierce  would  be 
the  best  word  to  describe  it  —  but  the  moment  the 
strain  was  over,  he  was  ready  to  take  up  life  again 
where  they  had  dropped  it  so  suddenly  when  their 
fears  came  upon  them.  It  perplexed  and  annoyed 
him  to  find  that  his  wife  was  not  ready  for  this  ; 
that  a  subtle  and  to  him  utterly  inexplicable  change 
had  passed  over  her. 

Once  more  Mrs.  Burnham  was  strusrodinfr  with 
the  problem  with  which  her  married  life  had  begun, 
namely,  "  How  shall  two  walk  together  except  they 
be  agreed?"  Struggling  with  it,  with  immensely 
greater  odds  against  her  than  when  she  first  began 
this  divided  life. 

You  will  recall  the  fact  that  the  husband  of  a 
few  weeks'  standing  had  succeeded,  with  one  pleas- 
ant pretext  after  another,  in  drawing  her  away 
from  the  prayer-meeting,  from  the  Sabbath-school, 
from  very  regular  attendance  at  church.  More 
than  that,  he  had  even  drawn  her  away  from  her 
Bible  and  her  daily  secret  communion  with  God. 
Not  suddenly,  so  that  it  startled  her  ;  not  con- 
sciously, perhaps,  on  his  part ;  he  did  not  under- 
stand these  things  ;  how  should  he  ?  He  did  not 
mean  to  do  his  wife  an  injury.  But  the  excuses 
were  so  numerous,  so  plausible  ;  the  influence  was 
so  steady  and  so  agreeable  ;  it  was  so  hard  to 
break  away  from  his  plans,  even  when  they  jarred 


l6        PLANTS  THAT  HAD  BLOSSOMED. 

her  conscience !  The  tendency  had  been  always 
downward,  but  so  slight,  that  it  was  only  dimly 
felt.  Gradually,  too,  she  had  been  drawn  more 
or  less  into  the  whirl  of  society,  and  found  that 
Mrs.  Judge  Burnham  had  a  circle  of  influence 
which  was  more  fascinating  than  any  phase  of 
fashionable  life  which  had  ever  been  presented  to 
the  girl,  Ruth  Erskine. 

Then  had  come  that  holy  thing  into  the  inner- 
most center  of  her  heart,  mother  love.  You  re- 
member how  she  made  all  interests,  even  the 
Master's,  second  to  this  ?  And  you  remember, 
perhaps,  how  closely  the  shadows  had  drawn  about 
her  on  that  evening  when  the  little  life  almost 
went  out  ? 

Since  that  time,  now  nearly  five  years  in  the 
background,  there  had  been  kept  up  a  steady 
struggle  between  her  Christian  life  and  her  hus- 
band's tastes  and  plans.  Not  that  she  had  not 
tried  to  explain  to  him  ;  but  the  views  which  could 
not  be  explained  during  those  first  few  months  of 
married  life  were  much  harder  to  explain  now. 
When  she  tried  to  tell  him  that,  as  a  Christian, 
she  must,  and  must  not,  he  confronted  her  with 
the  statement  that  she  was  a  Christian  when 
he  married  her,  and  that  she  had  by  no  means 
obtruded  her  peculiar  ideas  so  offensively  then  as 
now.  When  she  tried  to  make  him  understand 
the  solemn  experience,  lived  on  her  knees,  beside 
what  she  had  thought  was  the  dying  bed  of  their 


PLANTS    THAT    HAD    BLOSSOMED.  \J 

child,  he  assured  her  that  that  was  fanaticism  born 
of  fright ;  and  it  was  beneath  a  rational  woman 
to  make  herself  disagreeable  to  her  friends  because 
she  had  been  worried,  by  loss  of  sleep,  and  the 
fear  of  losing  her  baby,  into  taking  some  rash 
and  preposterous  vows  !  And  this  was  quite  as 
much  as  he  understood  about  it.  How  could  she 
explain  ?  She  ceased  to  try  ;  and  as  much  as  in 
her  lay  determined  to  live  her  divided  life,  and 
yet  have  peace.  But  peace  was  not  what  Judge 
Burnham  was  waiting  for  ;  he  wanted  concessions, 
and  an  agreeable  companion  always  with  him  in 
the  life  which  was  most  to  his  tastes. 

As  the  days  went  by,  it  became  apparent  that 
those  tastes  were  almost  entirely  diverse  from  his 
wife's.  Indeed,  there  were  hours  when  the  poor 
wife  stood  appalled  before  the  thought  that  they 
seemed  to  have  no  ideas  in  common  any  more. 
She  had  not  imagined  that  there  could  be  so  many 
occasions  of  difference.  But  if  he  was  in  earnest, 
so  was  she. 

He  did  not  set  about  winning  her  as  gracefully 
as  he  had  at  first ;  he  had  been  too  successful, 
during  his  first  attempts,  to  give  him  other  than  a 
feeling  of  irritation  when  he  thought  of  those 
days  and  the  ease  with  which  he  had  accomplished 
what  seemed  now  impossible.  I  shall  have  to 
confess,  also,  that  Ruth's  old  obstinacy  came 
to  her  aid  or  to  her  hinderance,  as  you  will ;  con- 
cessions which  she   could  have   made  she  would 


18  PLANTS    THAT    HAD    BLOSSOMED. 

not ;  and  when  she  might  have  resisted  gently, 
gracefully,  she  often  did  it  sternly,  with  a  deter- 
mination to  carry  her  point,  which  was  much  more 
evident  to  her  husband  than  was  the  reason  for 
carrying  it. 

Thus  the  breach  between  them  grew  and 
widened.  You  are  not  to  understand  that  they 
quarreled  openly  and  sharply ;  both  were  too  well- 
bred  for  that.  They  grew  cold  toward  each  other, 
at  times  almost  haughty  ;  they  held  endless  discus- 
sions in  cold  tones,  with  abundance  of  lady-like 
and  gentlemanly  sarcasm  distributed  through  them ; 
they  planned  in  accordance  with  individual  tastes 
very  often,  when  each  might  have  planned  for  the 
other.  Oh !  there  were  constant  errors  which 
this  poor  blundering  Christian  wife  made.  She 
needed  help  from  the  human  side,  and  she  had 
chosen  a  broken  reed  to  lean  upon.  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  she  made  mistakes  ?  Not  that  they 
were  necessary  in  view  of  her  position  ;  I  am  not 
excusing  her  ;  she  might  even  under  these  circum- 
stances have  gone  to  the  Stronghold  and  received 
grace  sufficient.  What  I  am  saying  is,  that  she 
had  made  life  harder  for  herself  than  it  need  have 
been ;  in  other  words,  led  herself  into  temptation, 
and  was  reaping  some  of  the  consequences. 

Meantime,  many  outside  influences  came  to 
Judge  Burnham's  aid.  For  one  thing,  the  gay 
world  sought  them  out  in  their  seclusion  ;  not 
merely  their  friends,   but  the   fashionable  world 


PLANTS    THAT    HAD    BLOSSOMED.  19 

itself.  The  straggling  little  village  to  which  Mrs. 
Burnham  had  been  introduced  as  a  bride,  would 
not  have  known  itself  if  it  had  been  shown  its 
own  photograph  after  the  lapse  of  these  half- 
dozen  years.  The  town  had  received  one  of  those 
sudden  booms  common  to  regions  of  country  near 
great  cities.  Two  rival  railroads  had  built  con- 
necting lines  through  the  place,  passing,  one  of 
them,  within  five  minutes'  walk  of  Judge  Burn- 
ham's  grounds,  and  making  it  possible  to  reach 
the  city  in  ten  minutes  instead  of  two  hours. 
This  of  itself  had  established  the  town  on  a  new 
basis.  Then  with  the  railroads  had  come  specu- 
lators—  thoughtful  business  men  who  examined 
the  river  rolling  quietly  through  the  outskirts  of 
the  village  with  an  eye  not  to  the  aesthetic,  but  to 
business.  In  a  brief  space  of  time  stock  companies 
were  formed,  and  huge  factories  were  rearing 
their  walls  toward  the  sky.  Real  estate  men 
came,  who  bought  and  laid  out  town  lots,  and  ad- 
vertised them  in  city  markets.  And  city  mer- 
chants and  lawyers,  looking  for  breathing  places 
for  their  families,  came  out  to  view  the  land 
and  were  charmed.  "So  quiet,"  they  said,  "so 
rural,  so  like  the  country  in  every  respect,  and  yet 
within  a  few  minutes  of  the  city." 

They  invested  forthwith,  and  builders  came  at 
their  bidding,  and  great  four-storied  palaces  were 
reared,  and  the  gas  company,  and  the  water  works 
company  and  the  sewer  company,  and  I  know  not 


20        PLANTS  THAT  HAD  BLOSSOMED. 

what  other  company,  followed  hard  after,  and  in 
an  incredibly  short  time  every  vestige  of  country 
life  had  departed.  Men  who  had  toiled  until  their 
hairs  were  white,  over  a  few  acres,  cut  them  up 
into  town  lots  and  retired  on  small  fortunes,  and 
thirty  trains  a  day  roared  in  and  out  to  accommo- 
date this  sudden  influx  of  city  life.  And  all  along 
the  river  bank  for  miles  out,  were  rows  and  rows 
of  tenement  houses,  built  for  the  factory  opera- 
tives who  had  sprung  up  as  if  by  magic  at  the 
first  sound  of  the  word  factory.  Judge  Burnham's 
broad  acres  which  had  belonged  to  the  Burnham 
name  for  more  than  half  a  century,  and  yielded 
respectable  returns  from  cabbage  and  potatoes, 
brought  fabulous  prices  as  "  city  lots."  Job  Fer- 
ris, hands  in  his  pockets,  mouth  wide  open  in 
amazement,  stood  before  two  men  who  were 
clinching  a  bargain  for  a  certain  knoll,  and  finally 
expressed  his  mind  :  — 

"I'm  blest  if  them  two  city  chaps  didn't  pay 
more  cash  down  for  that  wuthless  hill,  which  has 
nothing  but  a  few  trees  and  grass  on  it,  than  I 
could  make  out  of  the  field  of  turnips  lying  back 
of  it  if  I  was  to  raise  two  crops  a  year  for  the 
next  fifty  years  !  " 

Of  course  with  all  this  incoming  Fashion  came 
also.  Not  a  few  from  the  fashionable  world  were 
drawn  in  this  direction  in  the  first  place  from  the 
knowledge  of  the  fact  that  Judge  Burnham's 
"  country  seat  "   was  there,  and   "  Ruth   Erskine 


PLANTS    THAT    HAD    BLOSSOMED.  21 

had  been  so  charmed  with  it  that  she  had  gone 
there  immediately  on  her  marriage,  instead  of 
taking  a  house  in  town,  as  the  Judge  had  sup- 
posed she  would  wish  to  do." 

The  lady  who  used  to  be  Ruth  Erskine  smiled 
gravely  wrhen  she  heard  this,  and  wondered  what 
her  aristocratic  acquaintances  would  have  said  could 
they  have  seen  Judge  Burnham's  "country  seat" 
as  it  looked  when  she  first  came  to  it.  This  train 
of  thought  always  reminded  her  of  his  daughters; 
and  then  she  would  go  over  again  their  little  past 
since  she  had  known  them,  with  a  feeling  almost 
of  bewilderment.  When  was  it  that  these  girls, 
whose  beauty  she  almost  felt  as  though  she  had 
created,  stepped  quietly,  even  gracefully,  yet  with 
an  air  of  assurance  —  which  at  times  amounted  to 
insolence —  beyond  her  into  a  life  of  which  they 
seemed  to  think  she  knew  nothing.  When  was  it 
that  they  began  to  ignore  her  suggestions  and 
advice,  and  go  where  and  when  they  would,  and 
wear  what  they  would  ?  Often  with  graceful  def- 
erence to  the  father,  but  with  an  air  of  apparent 
forgetfulness  that  she  belonged  to  the  same  house- 
hold. In  the  early  months  of  her  acquaintance 
with  them  their  deference  to  her  had  been  almost 
painful  ;  it  had  seemed  to  her  such  a  pitiful  thing 
that  young  ladies  should  appear  to  have  no  minds 
of  their  own,  even  in  such  small  matters  as  how 
they  should  dress  for  dinner  in  their  own  home. 
She  had  looked  forward  to   the   time   when    they 


22        PLANTS  THAT  HAD  BLOSSOMED. 

would  be  able  to  think  and  plan  for  themselves. 
Now,  in  looking  back,  she  could  not  remember 
just  when  that  time  had  come,  but  that  it  had 
come,  was  undoubted.  In  the  old  days  she  had 
been  sometimes  troubled,  sometimes  annoyed, 
because  it  was  always  she  who  was  consulted, 
never  the  father  ;  on  the  few  occasions  when  she 
had  sent  them  to  him  for  decisions,  they  had  been 
so  thoroughly  frightened  as  to  vex  him  almost  be- 
yond endurance  ;  and  she  had  therefore  abandoned 
all  efforts  to  force  a  natural  condition  of  things. 
Now,  as  I  said,  this  was  strangely  changed.  Papa 
was  constantly  applied  to  for  opinions  regarding 
matters  about  which  he  might  naturally  be  sup- 
posed to  know  very  little  ;  but  as  the  two  bloomed 
more  and  more  into  beauty  and  prominence  in  the 
fashionable  world  —  became  leaders  indeed  in  their 
circle  —  Judge  Burnham's  long  slumbering  pater- 
nal pride  was  nourished  with  what  might  almost  be 
called  a  hothouse  growth  ;  he  lavished  every  adorn- 
ment on  them  which  a  fastidious  taste  could  sug- 
gest and  plenty  of  money  could  buy,  and  seemed 
to  enjoy  with  daily  increasing  delight  their  def- 
erence to  his  judgment  as  to  the  color  of  a  ribbon 
or  the  arrangement  of  a  curl. 

The  result  of  their  combined  tastes  was  often  a 
picture.  Certainly  they  had  blossomed  !  The 
lady  who  had  surveyed  with  satisfaction  the  result 
of  her  handiwork  on  that  Sabbath  morning  when 
they  appeared  in  the  first  budding  of  fashionable 


PLANTS    THAT    HAD    BLOSSOMED.  23 

attire,  looked  with  a  feeling  sometimes  akin  to 
dismay  on  the  full  bloom  of  the  plants  she  had 
nurtured.  The  girls  had  opinions  of  their  own  to- 
day, and  were  not  timid  in  expressing  them. 

Neither  were  they  like  their  step-mother  in  their 
tastes.  Ruth  Erskine  had  not  been  a  leader  of 
Fashion,  simply  because  she  would  not  be.  Fash- 
ion, even  in  the  days  before  conscience  seemed  to 
her  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it,  had  not  inter- 
ested her.  Nor  had  she  been  a  blind  follower  of 
prevailing  styles.  Because  "they"  wore  a  thing, 
had  never  been  a  reason  for  her  wearing  it. 
Neither  did  she  lay  aside  a  style  which  suited  her 
merely  because  it  had  ceased  to  be  "  the  rage." 
"I  wear  what  I  please,"  had  been  a  sentence  often 
on  the  lips  of  the  haughty  girl  when  these  ques- 
tions were  being  discussed  among  her  friends.  "I 
am  perfectly  willing  that  others  should  wear  it  or 
not,  as  they  choose." 

Later  in  life  this  independence,  which  in  less 
cultured  hands  might  have  been  somewhat  start- 
ling, toned  down  into  a  refinement  that  aimed  to 
bestow  enough  regard  to  prevailing  customs  not 
to  be  a  person  of  mark  in  any  way  in  connection 
with  them,  and  yet  to  enjoy  her  individual  tastes. 

Her  step-daughters,  as  I  have  said,  were  not  like 
her.  They  were  quite  willing  to  be  marked  in  the 
fashionable  world.  The  very  extreme  of  the  pre- 
vailing style  was  what  they  aimed  to  represent  ; 
and    if    they  were  the  first  to  adopt   "something 


24        PLANTS  THAT  HAD  BLOSSOMED. 

quite  new  and  striking,"  the  more  were  they 
pleased. 

To  be  described  in  a  morning  paper  as  having 
worn  the  night  before  at  Madame  Somebody's 
reception  "  the  first  American  representation  of  a 
recent  Parisian  style,  which  set  off  their  remark- 
able beauty  in  a  striking  manner,"  etc.,  would  have 
been  a  matter  of  intense  disgust  to  Ruth  Erskine ; 
to  the  Burnham  girls  it  was  a  pleasure. 

Such  being  the  case,  you  are  prepared  to  under- 
stand how  constantly  they  differed  even  in  matters 
pertaining  to  costume.  And,  if  you  understand 
human  nature,  you  also  know  that  it  became  natu- 
ral enough  for  girls  of  the  type  which  I  think  you 
discover  Judge  Burnham's  daughters  to  be,  to  say, 
at  first  to  themselves,  then  more  openly:  "Mamma 
does  not  understand  these  things  now ;  she  is  not 
in  society.  Besides,  she  was  always  queer ;  the 
Tremaines  say  so." 

Other  changes  had  come  to  Ruth  Burnham. 
Her  honored  father,  after  struggling  for  three 
years  with  what  was  to  him  poverty,  in  a  way 
which  had  filled  his  daughter's  heart  with  exultant 
pride,  and  after  one  year  more  of  such  marked 
business  success  as  to  make  manv  watchful  busi- 
ness  men  wonder  whether,  after  all,  his  way  had 
been  the  best,  and  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
reward  of  honor,  was  suddenly  called  to  that 
"  reward  "  toward  which  his  heart  had  tended  dur- 
ing these  later  years.     Very  triumphant  had  been 


PLANTS  THAT  HAD  BLOSSOMED.         25 

that  home-going ;  hushing  the  outburst  of  grief 
even  from  the  lips  of  his  wife,  and  making  Judge 
Burnham  repeat  to  his  heart,  unconsciously,  the 
old  cry,  "  Let  me  die  the  death  of  the  righteous." 

But  the  desolation  the  father  had  left  behind  him 
was  very  great.  His  daughter  mourned  for  him 
much  more  than  she  would  have  done  in  those 
early  months  of  her  married  life.  With  the  pass- 
ing years  and  the  bewildering  changes  in  her  own 
home,  she  had  found  herself  drawn  more  and  more 
closely  to  him. 

It  was  not  strange,  therefore,  that  on  this  even- 
ing as  she  sat  alone  in  the  blue  room,  and  let  the 
tears  fall  unheeded  on  her  clasped  hands,  the  out- 
cry from  her  lonely  heart  should  be  wrung  from 
her  with  a  low  moan  :  "  O,  father,  father !  if  you 
could  only  have  taken  me  with  you." 


26  LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS. 


CHAPTER   III. 

LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS. 

SUNDAY  morning,  and  a  blue  sky  and  sun- 
shine ;  the  rain  of  the  night  before  quite 
banished.  So  were  the  tears.  Mrs.  Burnham, 
presiding  at  the  nine-o'clock  breakfast-table,  looked 
no  paler  than  usual,  and  felt  more  thankful  in  her 
heart  than  she  had  for  a  long  time.  The  reason 
being,  that  Erskine  had  coughed  but  twice  during 
the  long  night,  though  the  east  wind  generally  set 
him  into  a  perfect  storm  of  coughing  about  mid- 
night, and  she  had  lain  awake  until  long  after  that 
hour,  watching  for  it.  The  boy  was  radiant,  also, 
this  morning  ;  dressed  for  church,  in  a  deep  blue 
velvet  kilt  suit,  with  a  white  collar,  and  a  knot  of 
white  velvet  ribbon  at  his  throat.  The  young 
ladies  admitted,  when  alone,  that  "  mamma  showed 
exquisite  taste  in  dressing  Erskine."  The  boy  was 
happy  over  much  the  same  thought  that  rested 
his  mother's  heart.  He  had  slipped  his  plump 
little  hand  lovingly  into  hers,  on  the  way  down 
stairs,  and  questioned,  "Did  I  cough,  mamma?" 

"Only  two  little  coughs,  my  darling  ;  and  those 
were  less  hoarse  than  during  the  day." 


LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS.  2J 

Then  a  gleeful  little  laugh  rang  out. 

"Goody!    I  knew  I    shouldn't;    I  felt   just   as 


sure  ! 


"  Why,  darling  ?  " 

"Because  —  that  is  a  secret;"  and  he  reached 
up  on  tiptoe  and  whispered  in  her  ear  :  "  I  asked 
Jesus  not  to  let  me  cough  last  night,  and  worry 
you,  and  he  said  he  wouldn't  ;  and  then,  of  course, 
I  knew  he  wouldn't." 

And  then  the  boy  was  kissed  ;  long,  clinging 
kisses,  which  had  in  them  an  element  of  pain. 
Would  he  grow  up  to  be  a  comfort,  and  an  inspi- 
ration to  her,  spiritually  ?  Was  this  lonely  mother 
to  have  help,  some  day  ? 

The  young  ladies  were  in  elegant  morning  cos- 
tumes, made  in  a  style  which  Ruth  particularly 
disliked.  Still,  she  admitted  that  they  looked 
well  in  them  ;  that  is,  as  well  as  persons  could 
look  in  fashions  so  devoid  of  grace  as  she  thought 
these  to  be. 

"  Papa,"  said  Miss  Seraph,  as  she  helped  her- 
self to  another  muffin,  "  suppose  we  go  to  town  to 
church  to-day  ?  " 

"  To  town  ?     What  is  the  attraction  there  ?  " 

"  Nothing  very  special  ;  only  Patty  Hamlin  sings 
at  St.  Paul's  this  morning,  for  the  first  time  this 
season  ;  and  I  would  rather  like  to  hear  her." 

"  I  would  rather  like  to  see  her,"  declared  Miss 
Minta,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  I  am  never  so  very 
particular  about  hearing  her ;    but  if   reports  are 


28  LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS. 

correct,  her  costume  will  be  something  remark- 
able to-day  ;  her  cousin  Harold  says  it  is  stun- 
ning." 

Judge  Burnham  slightly  frowned.  "  Does  young 
Hamlin  frequently  indulge  in  that  style  of  language 
when  conversing  with  ladies,  daughter  ?  " 

"  What  style  ?  Stunning  ?  Why,  dear  me  ! 
that  is  a  very  common  word." 

"  So  I  think  ;  too  common  to  be  agreeable." 

"O,  papa  dear!  Don't  you  go  to  being  a — 
what  is  the  masculine  for  prude,  I  wonder  ?  Seraph 
and  I  will  be  undone  if  you  desert  us,  and  get  to 
be  over-nice." 

There  was  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  pronoun 
that  referred  to  him.  It  marked,  even  in  Judge 
Burnham's  mind,  the  thought  that  his  daughter 
wished  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  she  considered 
her  step-mother  a  prude.  He  felt  that  she  ought 
to  be  frowned  on  for  such  an  insinuation  ;  but  she 
looked  so  pretty,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  such  a 
winning  light,  and  her  voice  was  so  tender  over 
the  words  "  Papa  dear,"  that  he  merely  laughed. 
After  all,  she  was  young ;  and  Ruth  was  very  dig- 
nified—  always  had  been;  he  admired  it  in  her; 
he  would  not  have  her  otherwise ;  but,  of  course, 
she  should  be  able  to  make  allowances  for  girls  ; 
and  they  meant  no  disrespect  ;  those  were  not  the 
tones  in  which  disrespect  were  offered.  Never- 
theless he  smoothed  his  face  into  gravity  again, 
and  said  :  "  I  confess  I  do  not  like  slang,  especially 


LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS.  20, 

when  addressed  to  a  lady.  I  would  not  allow  a 
young  man  to  say  much  to  me  about  'stunning' 
things  if  I  were  you." 

"  But  *about  St.  Paul's,  papa  ;  if  we  are  to  go, 
you  must  eat  your  beefsteak  faster  than  that ;  we 
shall  want  to  take  the  ten-o'clock  train."  This 
from  Seraph. 

"Why,  I  have  no  objection,  since  you  young 
ladies  are  both  of  the  same  mind."  His  eyes  hap- 
pened to  look  into  Erskine's  as  he  spoke,  and  he 
noted  the  sudden,  wistful  flash  in  them ;  the  boy 
was  very  fond  of  the  cars,  and  of  the  city,  and, 
indeed,  of  going  anywhere  with  his  father. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  to  town  with  us,  monkey  ?  " 

The  child's  beautiful  face  was  very  bright  for  a 
moment,  then  became  grave,  and  his  eyes  sought 
his  mother.  She  was  looking  steadily  at  her  plate, 
not  even  seeming  to  hear  the  conversation ;  so, 
with  a  little  sigh,  he  answered  :  "  Not  to-day,  papa, 
thank  you  ;  I  will  stay  with  mamma." 

"  With  mamma  ?  Well,  how  do  you  know  but 
mamma  will  come  with  us  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  know  she  won't ;  mamma  won't  ride  on 
the  cars  to-day." 

There  was  marked  emphasis  on  the  word  "to- 
day." A  chorus  of  laughter  greeted  him,  and  the 
little  boy's  sensitive  face  flushed.  He  looked 
quickly  at  his  mother  to  know  whether  what  he 
had  said  was  a  subject  for  laughter.  But  she  had 
not  laughed.     She  gave  him  a  rarely  sweet  smile, 


30  LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS. 

and  said,  "  Judge  Burnham,  will  you  have  another 
cup  of  coffee  ? "  while  Seraph  was  exclaiming, 
"The  idea  !  "  and  Minta  added  :  "  You  cl^ar  little 
prig  !  who  have  you  heard  say  that  ?  " 

"  Not  any  more,  thank  you,"  said  Judge  Burn- 
ham  to  his  wife.  Then  :  "  My  boy,  what  is  there 
wrong  about  going  on  the  cars  to  get  to  church  ? 
We  can  not  walk  there,  you  know." 

The  child  looked  puzzled,  pained  ;  turned  ques- 
tioning eyes  from  father  to  mother,  then  back  to 
his  father's  face  again.  Ruth  did  not  know  how 
to  help  him  without  openly  showing  discourtesy 
to  his  father. 

"I  don't  know,  papa,"  the  baby  said  at  last.  "I 
mean  I  don't  know  why  it  is  wrong ;  but  I  know 
mamma  thinks  so,  and  that  makes  it  so." 

The  trio  laughed  again,  and  Judge  Burnham 
said,  "  A  loyal  disciple  certainly ;  and  as  good  a 
logician  as  the  majority  of  overwise  people."  Then 
he  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Well,  Mrs.  Burnham, 
according  to  this  young  champion  against  error, 
you  will  not  join  the  party  for  St.  Paul's?  I  advise 
you  to  do  so  ;  I  do  not  believe  you  are  equal  to 
Mr.  Beckwith's  prosing  to-day.  I  confess  I  hail 
any  excuse  for  getting  away." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Ruth,  and  she  tried  to  keep 
her  voice  steady,  "  I  do  not  care  to  go  to  St  Paul's 
to-day."  Then  she  gave  the  signal  for  leaving  the 
table. 

An  hour  later,  dressed  in  deep  black,  she  took 


LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS.  3 1 

her  little  boy  by  the  hand  and  went  down  the 
wide-flagged  street  to  the  handsome  new  church 
on  the  corner,  that  had  taken  the  place  of  the 
desolate  wooden  structure  that  she  had  found 
when  she  first  came.  A  pretty  church  it  was, 
outside  and  in  ;  from  the  handsome  stained-glass 
windows  to  the  soft  Brussels  carpet  on  the  floor, 
there  was  nothing  to  offend  an  aesthetic  taste  or 
lead  worshipers  to  St.  Paul's  for  relief.  The 
music,  too,  if  not  so  artistic  as  that  found  in  city 
churches,  was  cultivated,  and  the  sweet-toned  organ 
was  well  played.  Rested  and  uplifted  by  the  hymn 
and  prayer,  Ruth  listened  eagerly  for  the  text ; 
she  felt  so  in  need  of  help  this  morning !  It 
was  suggestive  :  —  "  This  beginning  of  miracles 
did  Jesus  in  Cana  of  Galilee,  and  manifested  forth 
his  glory."  This  heart-burdened  woman  felt  as 
though  almost  a  miracle  was  needed  to  take  the 
jarring  elements  of  her  life  apart  and  set  them  into 
harmony.  No  heavy  burdens,  so-called,  but  ten 
thousand  little  things,  or  what  in  our  parlance  are 
named  little  things,  weighed  down  her  heart,  fet- 
tered her  lips,  filled  her  with  a  steadily  increasing 
unrest.  If  only  He  would  "manifest  His  glory" 
by  showing  his  power  in  her  heart  and  in  her 
home,  how  blessed  it  would  be  ! 

But,  alas  for  Ruth  !  she  listened  in  vain  for  that 
which  would  help  her  troubled  soul.  The  sermon 
was  a  well-worded,  logical  argument  in  proof  of 
the    genuineness  of    miracles !     Helpful,   perhaps, 


$2  LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS. 

for  those  who  needed  such  proof,  if  there  were 
listeners  of  that  character.  She  looked  about  her 
curiously,  wondering  if  any  habitual  attendants  at 
that  church  had  doubts  in  regard  to  the  Bible  mira- 
cles !  The  only  one  who  possibly  was  skeptical  in 
this  direction,  as  in  many  others,  was  at  this  mo- 
ment listening  to  the  elaborate  music  in  St.  Paul's, 
and  Ruth  decided  that  if  he  were  by  her  side  the 
sermon  would  not  have  helped  him,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  he  had  not  enough  interest  in  the 
question  to  care  to  be  helped.  As  for  herself, 
she  had  full  and  abiding  faith  in  the  fact  that  the 
Christ  of  Galilee  had  lavished  miracles  many  and 
wonderful  upon  that  favored  people  eighteen  hun- 
dred years  ago  ;  what  she  wanted  was  a  miracle 
for  her  to-day  —  in  her  heart  and  life. 

She  went  wearily  out  from  the  church,  bowing 
coldly  to  the  people  on  either  side,  stopping  not 
to  exchange  other  salutations  with  any ;  she  had 
held  herself  almost  entirely  aloof  from  the  new 
world  which  had  crowded  in  on  them,  and  hardly 
more  than  recognized  even  old  acquaintances  who 
had  become  her  neighbors.  The  name  given  to 
this,  by  many  of  her  old  friends,  was  pride  ;  for 
the  sudden  rise  of  property  all  through  that  region 
had  made  Judge  Burnham,  who  had  been  one  of 
the  rich  men  of  the  city  before  that  time,  almost 
fabulously  wealthy  in  the  eyes  of  the  community; 
and  Ruth  Erskine  had  always  been  "a  proud  girl," 
they  said ;  "  what  else  could  they  expect  of  Mrs. 


LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS.  33 

Judge  Burnham  ? "  But  Ruth's  secret  heart  knew 
that  the  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  her  choice  of 
friends  would  be  so  entirely  opposed  to  Judge 
Burnham's  tastes  and  desires  troubled  her,  and 
she  held  back  the  issue  by  retiring  behind  her 
mourning  robes. 

Also  she  knew  that  this  condition  of  things 
must  soon  be  changed.  Her  very  mourning  was 
one  of  the  elements  of  courteous  contention,  if  I 
may  use  such  a  phrase,  between  her  husband  and 
herself.  She  had  not  wanted  to  wrap  herself  in 
black  for  her  father.  It  was  true  that  she  felt 
desolate  enough  to  describe  it  to  the  world  by  the 
heaviest  crepe  it  could  furnish  her ;  but,  lingering 
over  the  death-bed  scene,  remembering  the  light- 
ing up  of  her  father's  face  as  earth  receded  from 
him  and  heaven  appeared,  remembering  the  smile 
of  unearthly  radiance  with  which  he  finally  "  en- 
tered in,"  it  had  not  seemed  fitting  that  she,  a 
Christian,  looking  forward  to  the  same  entrance 
one  day,  should  array  herself  in  gloom  and  mourn 
as  those  who  had  no  bright  side  to  their  sorrow. 
"  If  it  were  wise  or  kind  to  make  such  distinc- 
tions," she  had  said  to  her  sister  Susan,  "  I  could 
wish  that  society  would  arrange  that  those  whose 
friends  have  gone,  without  a  gleam  of  light,  into 
an  unknown  future,  should  wear  the  crepe  and 
bombazine,  and  let  us,  who  saw  the  reflection 
of  the  glory,  signalize  it  by  wearing  dazzling 
white." 


34  LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS. 

But  Judge  Burnham  was  emphatically  of  another 
mind.  He  not  only  approved  of  the  custom  of 
wearing  mourning,  but  he  believed  that  it  was  a 
mark  of  disrespect  to  the  dead  not  to  do  so  ;  and 
for  his  wife  to  appear  in  any  other  than  the  deep- 
est crepe  for  her  father  would,  he  argued,  be  trans- 
lated by  his  acquaintances  into  a  story  that  there 
was  some  hardness  between  her  father  and  her 
husband  in  their  business  relations  ;  and  in  this 
way  she  would  actually,  if  she  persisted  in  her 
strange  ideas,  bring  disrespect  upon  the  living 
husband  as  well  as  the  dead  father. 

So  Ruth  did  not  persist ;  she  let  her  mourning 
be  of  the  deepest,  gloomiest  sort  ;  and,  truth  to 
tell,  was  glad  to  hide  her  swollen  eyes  and  quiver- 
ing lips  behind  the  heavy  crepe  veil. 

But  as  the  months  passed  it  was  made  apparent 
that  no  more  emphatic  had  been  Judge  Burnham's 
desire  to  have  the  mourning  worn  than  it  was  to 
have  it  laid  aside  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 
One  year,  he  argued,  was  as  long  as  they  ever 
wore  mourning  for  a  parent ;  and  poor  Ruth,  who 
had  always  hated  to  do  things  for  no  better  reason 
than  because  "they"  did  them,  found  herself 
shrinking  from  this  change  with  a  pertinacity 
which  sometimes  half-frightened  her.  She  could 
have  summoned  her  Christian  faith  to  the  ordeal 
of  facing  the  customs  of  society,  and  worn  no 
mourning  at  all ;  that  would  have  been  a  tribute 
to  the  fact  that  her  father  had  gone  where  they 


LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS.  35 

did  not  mourn  ;  but  to  elect  a  certain  dav  and 
hour  in  which  to  appear  before  the  watching 
world  and  say,  by  one's  style  of  dress,  "  Now  my 
days  of  mourning  are  over  ;  my  father  has  been 
remembered  long  enough  ;  I  am  ready  for  the  gay 
world  once  more"  — from  this  she  shrank  so  per- 
sistently, and  dwelt  on  the  disagreeable  side  of  it 
so  much,  that  she  was  growing  morbid  over  it. 

This  was  the  way  matters  stood  on  this  Sabbath- 
day,  now  nearly  two  years  since  her  father  had 
exchanged  worlds  ;  and  Ruth,  knowing  that  she 
must,  sooner  or  later,  yield,  still  hugged  her  mourn- 
ing robes,  and  shielded  herself  with  them  from  the 
society  which  she  despised. 

Erskine  danced  merrily  by  her  side,  glad  that 
the  restraints  of  the  church  service  were  over,  and 
he  could  have  his  mamma  quite  to  himself. 

He  and  Ruth  ate  their  luncheon  alone ;  the 
party  from  the  city  could  hardly  arrive  before 
the  three-o'clock  train,  and  would  probably  lunch 
in  some  fashionable  down-town  resort. 

Despite  the  mother's  earnest  effort  to  put  self  in 
the  background,  and  make  the  Sabbath  a  delight 
to  her  little  hoy,  she  but  half  succeeded.  The 
afternoon  wore  away  somewhat  heavily  to  the 
restless  child,  and  he  broke  into  the  midst  of 
Ruth's  Bible  story  with  this  irrelevant  question,  — 

"  Mamma,  what  makes  it  wicked  to  ricle  in  the 
steam  cars  on  Sunday?" 

Ruth  winced.      She  had  no  desire  to  enter  into 


36  LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS. 

minute  explanations  with  this  wise-eyed  child. 
Still  he  must  be  answered. 

"My  darling,  don't  you  remember  mamma  told 
you  how  the  poor  men  who  have  to  make  the  cars 
go,  can  not  have  any  Sunday  —  any  time  to  go  to 
church,  and  read  the  Bible,  and  learn  about  God 
and  heaven  ? " 

"  I  know,  mamma ;  but  the  cars  go  all  the  same, 
and  the  men  have  to  work,  and  so  why  can't  we 
ride  on  them  ?  They  wouldn't  have  to  work  any 
harder  because  we  went  along." 

The  old  questions,  always  confronting  those 
who  try  to  step  ever  so  gently  on  higher  ground 
than  that  occupied  by  the  masses  ;  the  specious 
argument  which  is  in  the  mouths  of  rumsellers 
and  wine-bibbers  and  grown-up  Sabbath-breakers 
all  the  world  over.  Surely  not  so  astute  a  question, 
after  all,  since  this  baby  presents  it  evolved  from 
his  own  baby  mind.  Ruth  could  not  help  smil- 
ing faintly  as  she  answered  :  — 

"  That  is  true,  my  boy,  but  if  we  kept  on  taking 
the  Sunday  rides  because  others  did,  and  because 
the  train  would  go  anyway,  whether  we  went  or 
not,  how  many  people  do  you  suppose  we  would 
by  our  actions  set  to  thinking  that  perhaps  it  was 
wrong  ?  And  how  long  do  you  suppose  it  would 
be  before  the  thinking  which  we  set  in  motion 
would  help  to  change  the  customs  of  Sunday 
trains  ?  " 

Deep  questions,  these,  for  a  boy  who  had  barely 


LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS.  37 

reached  the  dignity  of  five  years.  But  he  had 
grown  up  thus  far  at  his  mother's  knee,  and  was 
accustomed  to  the  grave  discussion  of  all  sorts  of 
questions.  The  look  in  his  eyes  at  that  moment 
showed  that  he  comprehended,  at  least  in  a  meas- 
ure, Ruth's  meaning.  He  changed  the  line  of 
argument  :  "  Papa  rides  on  them." 

Ruth  could  hardly  suppress  a  visible  shiver. 
Here  was  the  sore  spot  in  her  life  thrusting  its 
sharp  point  into  her  very  soul,  making  it  at  times 
seem  almost  impossible  for  her  to  be  loyal  to  her 
husband  and  true  to  her  child.  How  was  a  wife 
to  answer  such  a  sentence  as  that  ? 

"People  think  differently  about  these  things, 
Erskine.  You  know  mamma  told  you  we  have  to 
think  about  them,  and  pray  about  them,  and  decide 
what  we  shall  do,  not  what  somebody  else  shall  do." 

"  Did  papa  pray  about  this  and  decide  ?  " 

"  Won't  mamma's  little  boy  leave  papa  and 
everybody  else  out  of  the  question  just  now,  except 
his  own  little  conscience,  and  tell  me  what  he 
thinks  is  right  ?" 

"  Well,  mamma,  tell  me  this  :  when  I  get  to  be 
a  man,  will  I  think  as  you  do,  or  as  papa  does,  do 
you  s'pose  ? " 

He  will  never  understand  perhaps,  this  innocent 
boy,  how  his  questions  probed  the  mother's  heart. 
"  God  only  knows,"  she  could  not  help  murmuring, 
and  arose  quickly  with  a  pretense  of  rearranging 
the  fire,  but  in  reality  to  hide  the  starting  tears. 


38  LOGIC    AND    INTERROGATION    POINTS. 

"  I  mean,  mamma,"  he  hastened  to  explain  in  a 
half-apologetic  tone,  dimly  aware  that  he  had  in 
some  way  grieved  his  mother  —  "I  only  mean  I 
will  be  a  man,  you  know  ;  and  do  gentlemen  think 
things  are  right  that  sometimes  ladies  think  are 
wrong  ? " 

"  Erskine,"  Mrs.  Burnham  said,  resuming  her 
seat  and  taking  both  the  chubby  hands  into  her 
own,  "  tell  me  this :  Did  God  write  one  Bible  for 
gentlemen  and  another  for  ladies  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  mamma." 

"  Then  let  me  find  a  verse  in  His  Bible  about 
this,  for  us  to  read." 

The  place  was  found,  and  the  slow,  sweet  voice 
of  the  child  repeated  after  his  mother  the  earnest 
words  :  "  If  thou  turn  away  thy  foot  from  the  Sab- 
bath, from  doing  thy  pleasure  on  my  holy  day,  and 
call  the  Sabbath  a  delight,  the  holy  of  the  Lord, 
honorable,  and  shalt  honor  him,  not  doing  thine  own 
ways,  or  finding  thine  own  pleasure,  nor  speaking 
thine  own  words,  then  shalt  thou  delight  thyself 
in  the  Lord,  and  I  will  cause  thee  to  ride  upon 
the  high  places  of  the  earth,  and  feed  thee  with 
the  heritage  of  Jacob  thy  father  :  for  the  mouth 
of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  it." 

The  reading  closed  with  a  long-drawn,  thought- 
ful sigh  on  the  child's  part,  but  the  young  logician 
kept  his  deductions  to  himself,  for  at  that  moment 
the  party  from  the  city  heralded  their  return  with 
the  sound  of  merry  laughter. 


UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES.  39 


CHAPTER   IV. 

UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES. 

MRS.  BURNHAM  was  entertaining  a  caller 
in  her  own  room  ;  very  few  people  were 
allowed  the  privilege  of  coming  up  to  that  lovely 
blue  room  which  was  the  special  refuge  of  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house.  The  daughters  understood,  as 
by  a  sort  of  instinct,  that  they  were  not  expected 
to  intrude  here,  and  the  Judge  himself  always 
tapped  lightly  before  entering  ;  only  Erskine  was 
privileged  to  come  when  he  would. 

But  the  caller  was  a  special  one,  even  Mrs.  Dr. 
Dennis,  and  the  two  who  posed  before  the  world 
as  dignified  matrons  were  when  alone  "  Ruth  "  and 
"  Marion  "  still.  They  did  not  meet  very  often. 
Marion,  as  the  wife  of  a  busy  pastor,  had,  of  course, 
her  many  cares,  and  her  almost  overwhelming 
social  duties  ;  and  Ruth  had  fallen  out  of  the  habit 
of  going  even  among  these  old  friends  very  often. 
But  the  old,  warm  friendship  burned  strongly,  and 
as  often  as  they  met  they  assured  each  other,  with 
equal  earnestness  and  sincerity  of  purpose,  that 
the  time  between  their  calls   should  never  be  so 


40  UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES. 

long  again.  Still  it  always  was,  and  there  was 
always,  consequently,  a  great  deal  to  say. 

So  it  was,  after  Marion  had  been  talking  eagerly 
for  nearly  an  hour,  that  she  suddenly  broke  off  in 
the  midst  of  a  sentence,  with  the  words  :  "  But  I 
really  have  not  time  to  tell  you  that  ;  it  is  a  long 
story,  and  I  have  stayed  now  longer  than  I  meant. 
Ruth  dear,  I  came  to  see  you  for  a  special  purpose 
to-day.  I  couldn't  have  come  merely  for  pleasure, 
because  we  are  unusually  busy  with  church  work 
this  month  ;  but  I  knew  I  was  so  old  and  tried 
a  friend  that  I  might  venture  to  say  a  word  to  you 
about  that  pretty  daughter  of  yours  :  the  younger 
one,  I  think  she  is." 

Ruth's  face  flushed  a  little  ;  the  skeletons  in  her 
home  —  if  skeletons  they  really  were  —  were  never 
brought  out  for  other  eyes  to  behold.  Marion 
Dennis  saw  the  flush,  and  hastened  her  speech. 

"  Of  course  I  run  the  risk  of  meddling  with 
what  is  none  of  my  business  ;  but  Mr.  Dennis  said 
you  would  forgive  because  of  the  motive,  and  be- 
cause it  was  I  myself.  He  has  great  faith  in  our 
old  friendship,  you  see.  It  is  nothing  very  for- 
midable ;  only  to  ask  you  if  you  know,  if  Judge 
Burnham  knows,  just  what  sort  of  person  that 
young  Hamlin  is  with  whom  Minta  rides  and 
walks  occasionally  ?  Not  quite  that,  either ;  for 
of  course  you  don't  know  ;  but  my  errand  is  simply 
to  put  you  on  your  guard  in  time." 

It  was  very  gently  put  ;  Minta's  walks  and  rides 


UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES.  41 

with  the  young  man  in  question  were  much  mere 
than  "occasional." 

"  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  him,"  Ruth 
hastened  to  say,  "  and  I  never  heard  Judge  Burn- 
han  mention  his  name  ;  but  I  supposed,  of  course, 
he  knew  the  sort  of  person  with  whom  he  allowed 
his  daughter  to  associate." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not  ;  indeed,  Mr.  Dennis  says 
it  is  more  than  probable,  engrossed  in  business  as 
he  is,  and  looking  upon  his  daughters  as  children 
■ —  all  men  do  that,  until  they  are  old  enough  to  be 
grandmothers  —  he  has  probably  not  given  the 
matter  a  thought  ;  and,  besides,  Mr.  Dennis  says 
business  men  really  know  comparatively  little 
about  the  men  with  whom  they  associate  intimately. 
It  is  so  different  with  a  minister,  you  know  ;  he  is 
the  confidential  friend  of  so  many  people,  and 
carries  the  burdens  of  others  so  continually,  that 
he  learns  to  keep  his  eyes  very  wide  open.  More- 
over, he  came  very  near  having  a  serious  lesson 
of  his  own,  you  remember  ;  and  that  has  made 
him  more  watchful  over  all  young  daughters,  I 
think." 

"  I  remember  your  anxiety  about  Gracie.  How 
did  you  manage  it,  Marion  ?  " 

There  was  a  wistful  note  in  Mrs.  Burnham's 
voice,  which  did  not  escape  her  caller's  watchful 
ear  ;  it  said,  almost  as  plainly  as  words  could  have 
done,  "  I  thought  I  knew  all  about  managing,  but 
these  girls  of  mine  are  beyond  my  control,  and  I 


42  UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES. 

don't  in  the  least  know  how  to  set  to  work  to  right 
anything  which  may  be  wrong." 

"Oh!  I  didn't  do  much  of  the  managing.  I 
couldn't,  you  know  ;  she  would  resent  that,  nat- 
urally. I  don't  think  we  ought  to  expect  from  young 
people  much  that  is  against  nature.  Her  father  had 
to  do  the  talking  ;  I  kept  myself  as  far  as  possible 
in  the  background,  only  helping  with  my  wits,  of 
course,  where  I  could.  It  wasn't  a  formidable 
thing,  though  it  looked  so  for  a  time.  Gracie  gave 
me  credit  for  having  more  to  do  with  it  than  I 
had  ;  that  was  natural,  too  ;  but  she  recovered,  and 
I  think  she  has  not  thanked  me  for  anything  more 
earnestly  than  she  has  for  '  helping  save '  her,  as 
she  expressed  it,  though,  as  I  tell  you,  I  did  very 
little.  She  went  to  New  York,  you  remember, 
and  our  blessed  little  Flossy,  with  her  sweet,  wise 
ways,  came  to  the  rescue.  Then  she  met  Ralph, 
and  that  helped  immensely.  '  The  expulsive  power 
of  a  new  affection.'  I  often  think  of  that  sentence 
in  one  of  our  old  text  books.  It  works  magic  with 
the  human  heart,  Ruth." 

"  How  is  Gracie  ?  "  Mrs.  Burnham  asked,  shading 
her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  trying  to  keep  a  long- 
ing sense  of  envy  from  appearing  in  her  voice  ; 
Mrs.  Dennis  had  very  happy  relations  with  her 
step-daughter.  If  Ruth's  experience  could  only 
have  been  like  hers  ! 

"  Oh  !  she  is  well  ;  and  happy,  and  busy.  Their 
letters  would   fairly  make   you  tired,  Ruth,  they 


UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES.  43 

have  so  many  schemes  for  their  young  men  and 
women  ;  and  carry  them  out,  too.  It  is  no  day- 
dreaming. Gracie,  with  her  young  Ralph,  not  yet 
a  year  old,  to  look  after,  and  her  housekeeping 
duties  besides,  accomplishes  more  for  the  cause  of 
Christ  in  the  world  than  dozens  of  young  wives 
do,  all  about  her,  who  are  boarding,  and  have  not 
a  care  in  life." 

Mrs.  Burnham  sighed.  How  much  she  had 
meant  to  accomplish  for  the  cause  of  Christ  in  the 
world  !  How  had  it  happened  that,  so  young,  and 
with  so  much  leisure,  she  had  become  stranded  ? 

"  But  about  this  young  man,  "  said  Mrs.  Dennis, 
stealing  a  glance  at  her  watch  and  looking  startled. 
"  It  seems  he  is  very  dissipated  ;  drinks  even  to  in- 
toxication, and  that  quite  frequently.  Mr.  Dennis 
says  he  has  means  of  knowing  that  he  is  carried 
helpless  to  his  room  three  nights  out  of  a  week." 

"  Is  it  possible  ? "  Ruth  said,  in  disgust.  She 
had  always  shrunk  from  people  who  drank  liquor 
to  excess,  as  belonging  to  a  lower  order  of  beings. 

"Yes,  it  is  true.  Of  course  Mr.  Dennis  took 
pains  to  verify  his  fears  before  he  mentioned 
them  ;  not  that  it  is  anything  unusual  in  a  society 
man,  but  then  "  — 

"  Isn't  it  unusual  ?  You  cannot  mean  that  it 
is  common  among  young  men  of  the  higher 
classes  ? " 

"  Oh  !  you  dear  child,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  is. 
The  higher  classes  are  the  worse  off,  perhaps,  if 


44  UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES, 

there  is  any  '  worse '  to  the  scourge ;  but  you 
know  "  — 

Ruth  interrupted  her  again,  glancing  around  in- 
stinctively to  see  if  her  child  was  within  hearing, 
as  she  said  fiercely,  almost  under  her  breath  :  — 

"  Erskine  shall  never  taste  the  stuff  !  " 

"  She  looked  around,  "  said  Mrs.  Dennis  after- 
ward, in  detailing  this  conversation  to  her  hus- 
band, "with  almost  the  eyes  of  a  tigress  suddenly 
brought  in  contact  with  a  danger  which  menaced 
her  babies." 

"Then  you  will  have  to  be  on  the  alert,  my 
dear  friend  ;  it  is  none  too  early  to  begin  with  your 
'line  upon  line,  '  for  I  do  assure  you  I  am  appalled 
at  the  waste  of  manhood  which  is  going  on  in 
secret.  I  could  almost  pray,  if  I  had  sons,  that  I 
might  bury  them  in  their  babyhood,  lest  I  should 
live  to  see  them  stagger  home. 

"  But  perhaps  that  is  not  the  worst  of  this  young 
man's  habits.  He  is  a  gambler,  as  well  as  a  hard 
drinker ;  almost  a  professional  one ;  at  least  he 
uses  his  skill  to  decoy  others,  it  is  said.  But  even 
that  is  not  what  I  came  to  tell  you  this  morning, 
my  dear  Ruth." 

She  drew  her  chair  closer,  and  her  voice  sank 
lower  while  she  told  rapidly  with  as  few  words  as 
possible,  a  story  of  sin  which  made  the  matron's 
face  pale  with  righteous  indignation. 

"  Now  you  know, "  Mrs.  Dennis  said,  gathering 
her  wraps  about  her,  "  why  I  dropped  everything 


UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES.  45 

this  morning  and  came  out  to  you.  I  knew,  of 
course,  that  Judge  Burnham  must  be  quite  igno- 
rant of  facts,  and  that  he  must  be  told.  And  now 
I  have  barely  time  to  make  my  train  ;  I  expected 
to  have  taken  the  one  that  went  up  an  hour  ago." 

Left  alone,  Mrs.  Burnham  gave  herself  up  to 
painful  musings.  How  should  she  plan  so  as  to 
save  her  husband's  daughter  from  a  possible  experi- 
ence of  misery  ?  If  the  relations  between  herself 
and  that  daughter  had  been  what  she  had  planned 
they  should  be,  the  way  would  have  been  easy. 
But  now,  when  she  had,  in  a  way  which  she  did  not 
understand,  been  put  one  side,  been  plainly  shown 
each  day  that  her  influence  was  less  than  nothing, 
what  was  there  she  could  do  ? 

"  Her  father  had  to  do  the  talking,"  Marion  had 
said,  with  a  bright  smile  and  a  wifely  pride  in  the 
reference  to  her  husband,  and  Ruth  would  not  for 
the  world  have  hinted,  to  another,  that  this  father 
was  not  in  such  hearty  sympathy  with  her  views 
as  to  talk  in  accordance  with  them. 

Not  even  Marion,  intimate  as  they  had  been, 
should  ever  know  from  words  of  hers  that  there 
were  any  shadows  in  her  married  life.  Yet  all  the 
same  she  knew  that  Judge  Burnham  did  not  think 
nor  feel  as  she  did  about  many  things.  Still,  in 
this  thing,  of  course,  there  would  of  necessity  be 
agreement.  The  man  was  not  a  fit  acquaintance 
for  a  lady,  and  the  probability  was  that  her  hus- 
band   would    know    how    to    put    an    end    to   the 


46  UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES. 

acquaintance ;  she  need  not  borrow  trouble  over 
that.  But  she  shrank  from  telling  him.  There 
were  so  many  things  nowadays  to  jar  his  nerves 
and  spoil  their  home  talks,  it  seemed  a  pity  to  add 
yet  another.  Of  course  he  would  be  terribly 
angry.  What  father  would  not?  Perhaps  he 
would  even  blame  her.  Yet  surely  he  could  see 
how  little  influence  she  had.  Her  musings  were 
broken  in  upon  by  the  sound  of  a  clear  voice  in 
the  hall  below  :  — 

"  Kate,  tell  Miss  Seraph  if  she  inquires  for  me, 
that  I  went  to  ride  with  Mr.  Hamlin,  and  that  I 
will  meet  her  at  Chester's  at  three  o'clock." 

"Yes'm,"   returned    Kate,   and    Mrs.    Burnham 
arose   in   haste   and   pulled   the  bell  cord.     Kate 
appeared  almost  immediately  in  answer. 
"  Kate,  has  Miss  Minta  gone  out? " 
"No,   ma'am,   not    yet;    she's  just  going;   the 
gentleman  is  waiting  in  the  parlor." 

"  Ask  her  to  step  here  a  moment,  please,  before 
she  goes." 

Ten  minutes  passed,  and  then  Minta's  tap  was 
answered.  She  swept  into  the  room  —  a  beau- 
tiful girl  in  her  perfect-fitting  dress  of  dark-blue 
cloth,  more  plainly  made  than  was  usual  to  her, 
and  consequently  more  becoming.  The  glow  of 
youth  and  health  was  on  her  cheek,  and  as  her 
bright  eyes  rested  with  a  sort  of  astonished  inquiry 
on  her  mother,  they  said  almost  as  plainly  as  words 
could   have    done,  "To  what  am   I  indebted    for 


UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES.  47 

such  unusual  attention  ? "  It  was  true  enough, 
though  Mrs.  Burnham  did  not  realize  that  she  had 
set,  years  ago,  an  excellent  example  for  this  indif- 
ference on  the  part  of  her  step-daughters,  by  being 
herself  quite  indifferent  in  regard  to  their  move- 
ments, so  long  as  they  were  well-dressed  and  well- 
behaved. 

"Minta,"  she  began  hurriedly,  "I  want  to  speak 
with  you  a  moment." 

"  So  Kate  told  me.  Please  be  as  expeditious  as 
is  convenient ;  I  have  kept  my  escort  waiting  an 
unreasonably  long  time  now." 

"  But  I  do  not  know  that  what  I  have  to  say 
can  be  told  in  a  few  minutes." 

She  was  visibly  embarrassed,  and  did  not  know 
how  to  commence  her  appeal.  Miss  Minta  ele- 
vated her  eyebrows. 

"  Indeed,"  she  said,  the  tone  being  a  trifle  super- 
cilious ;  "then  perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  to 
reserve  it  for  a  more  convenient  hour,  since  I  am 
already  being  waited  for." 

"  But,  Minta,  it  is  about  that  I  wish  to  speak ;  I 
mean  about  your  escort ;  it  is  Mr.  Hamlin,  is  it 
not  ?  I  do  not  think,  that  is,  I  feel  quite  sure  that 
your  father  would  object  to  your  riding  with  him." 

A  perfectly  foolish  way  in  which  to  present  the 
subject  ;  no  one  could  realize  this  better  than  she 
did  herself.  The  flush  on  the  young  lady's  face 
was  brilliant,  and  her  eyes  flashed  indignation. 

"  I  should  like  to  understand  you  if  I  can,"  she 


48  UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES. 

said  haughtily.  "  Tray,  why  should  my  father 
suddenly  object  to  my  riding  with  a  gentleman 
with  whom  I  have  rode  every  other  day  for  a 
month  or  more  ?  And  if  he  objects,  pray  why  does 
he  not  tell  me  so,  instead  of"  — 

She  paused  suddenly,  for  Ruth  was  regarding 
her  now  with  a  face  calculated  to  subdue  insolence 
in  speech  at  least.  Her  voice  was  less  excited 
than  before,  but  colder. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  was  unduly  excited  in 
my  anxiety,  and  made  an  unfortunate  beginning  ; 
I  mean  I  have  recently  heard  that  about  Mr.  Ham- 
lin which  leads  me  to  think  that  your  father,  when 
he  hears  of  it,  will  have  very  serious  objections  to 
your  continuing  his  acquaintance,  and  in  his  ab- 
sence I  considered  it  my  duty  to  warn  you." 

"  And  I  am  expected  to  be  grateful,  I  suppose  ? 
Am  I  to  be  treated  to  a  dish  of  this  precious 
gossip,  whatever  it  is  ?  " 

The  girl  was  very  angry ;  there  was  clearly 
some  reason  beside  the  silly  pride  of  being  inter- 
fered with,  which  flushed  her  cheek,  and  made  her 
eyes  flash  like  coals  of  fire.  When  Ruth  thought 
it  over  in  more  quiet  moments  she  recognized  this 
fact ;  but  now  she,  too,  was  angry.  What  right 
had  this  impudent  girl  who  had  belonged  only  to- 
the  backwoods  until  she  brought  her  forward,  to 
characterize  the  conversation  between  Mrs.  Dennis 
and  herself  as  gossip  ?  Still  her  voice  was  low 
and  controlled.     There  had  been  that  trait  about 


UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES.  49 

Ruth  Erskine,  the  girl :  she  had  never  allowed 
herself  to  speak  with  raised  voice  or  rapid  enuncia- 
tion, even  when  her  anger  reached  a  white-heat ; 
she  had  not  lost  so  much  power  of  self-control. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  beyond  the  fact  that  I 
have  such  information  concerning  the  person  in 
question  as  should  make  a  young  lady  grateful 
for  a  warning,  presented  in  time,"  she  said,  look- 
ing steadily  at  the  angry  girl.  "  What  your  father 
may  see  fit  to  tell  you,  I  cannot  say ;  but  I  cer- 
tainly shall  not  trouble  with  details." 

"You  are  very  kind  and  very  considerate  ;  I  am 
sure  I  ought  to  go  on  my  knees  to  thank  you  ; 
meantime,  if  you  have  nothing  further  to  offer,  I 
suppose  I  may  relieve  the  impatience  of  my  friend 
who  is  waiting." 

I  can  give  you  the  words,  but  the  tone  in  which 
they  were  spoken,  and  the  indescribable  manner 
that  accompanied  them,  you  must  imagine.  It 
was  the  most  decided  rebellion  against  her  inter- 
ference which  Ruth  had  ever  received.  Even  at 
that  moment  she  thought  of  Mrs.  Dennis  and  her 
daughter  Grace.  What  would  she  have  said  or 
done  under  circumstances  like  these  ?  Would  such 
circumstances  ever  have  arisen  between  them  ? 

Probably  not  ;  I,  a  quiet  outsider,  answer  for 
her ;  because,  in  the  second  place,  the  two  girls 
were  essentially  different  ;  but  also  because  in  the 
first  place,  Marion  had  gone  to  her  daughter  from 
her  knees  ;  gone  with  a  loving,  tender,  sympathetic 


50  UNWELCOME    RESPONSIBILITIES. 

heart,  and  with  infinite  skill  and  patience  had 
touched  the  sore  point  between  them. 

Miss  Minta's  hand  was  on  the  door-knob  when 
her  mother  spoke  again  ;  still  in  that  low,  self- 
restrained  voice  :  — 

"  I  have  nothing  further  to  say,  but  I  trust  we 
understand  each  other  ;  the  world  looks  upon  me 
as  your  proper  guardian  in  company  with  your 
father,  however  unreasonable  or  silly  that  world 
may  be  ;  and  therefore  in  his  absence  I  must  ex- 
ercise my  judgment,  and  ask  you  to  suspend 
further  rides  with  the  gentleman  until  you  have 
your  father's  sanction  ;  I  shall  not,  of  course,  in- 
terfere further  than  that." 

The  hand  was  still  on  the  door-knob,  but  its 
owner  turned  and  gave  a  look  of  mingled  rage  and 
amazement  at  her  step-mother. 

"  Do  you  take  me  for  a  complete  idiot  ?  " 

This  was  all  she  said,  and  as  the  question  did 
not  seem  to  require  an  answer,  it  received  none. 
The  door  opened  and  closed  with  a  very  decided 
bang,  and  in  less  than  five  minutes  afterward, 
Ruth,  standing  at  the  front  window,  saw  the  blue- 
robed  maiden  carefully  lifted  into  the  handsome 
carriage  that  stood  in  waiting,  and  the  costly 
wrappings  were  tucked  carefully  about  her  -by 
young  Mr.   Hamlin. 


"forewarned"  and  "forearmed."        51 


CHAPTER   V. 


"forewarned"  and   "forearmed." 


WHEN  Judge  Burnham  let  himself  into  his 
own  hall  that  afternoon,  it  was  not  his  wife 
who  was  waiting  to  meet  him,  but  his  daughter 
Minta,  attired  faultlessly,  with  a  studied  regard 
to  his  expressed  tastes  ;  even  her  hair  done  in  just 
the  way  he  liked  best,  but  with  traces  of  tears  on 
her  beautiful  face,  and  a  sort  of  childlike  quiver  on 
her  pretty  chin  which  was  inexpressibly  bewitch- 
ing to  him. 

She  reached  up  both  arms,  put  them  around 
his  neck,  and  held  up  lovely,  pouting  lips  for  a 
kiss,  then  suddenly  drew  back  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"  What  in  the  world  does  all  this  mean  ? "  Judge 
Burnham  asked,  dropping  into  one  of  the  large 
easy-chairs  that  abounded  in  the  wide  hall,  and 
drawing  his  daughter  to  his  side,  where  she  nestled 
her  head  in  his  beard  and  cried  gently  and  becom- 
ingly. "  I  didn't  know  such  bright  eyes  as  yours 
ever  had  time  for  showers.  Who  has  been  bruising 
my  gay  little  blossom?"  and  he  drew  her  face 
away  from  its  hiding-place,  and  kissed  her  tenderly. 


52  "  FOREWARNED        AND    "  FOREARMED. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  papa,  I  did  not  mean  to 
cry  ;  I  know  you  don't  like  tears,  but  I  have  been 
so  hurt  to-day  I  could  not  help  it." 

"  What  is  it,  little  sensitive  plant  ?  How  did 
you  manage  to  have  such  troublesome  feelings,  to 
be  hurt  if  the  east  wind  blows  on  them  ?  "  And 
for  a  moment  the  father  went  back  curiously  to 
the  years  that  seemed  almost  centuries  away,  so 
great  had  been  the  changes  they  had  wrought  ;  the 
years  when  these  girls  of  his  had  been  overgrown, 
ill-shapen,  country  frights  ;  and  he  reflected  com- 
placently that  their  appearance  then  was  evidently 
only  an  embryo  condition,  and  that  the  real  Burn- 
ham  blood  "told"  at  last.  "In  childhood  they 
were  like  their  mother,"  he  told  himself  compla- 
cently ;  "  but,  as  they  develop,  they  prove  them- 
selves to  be  true  Burnhams." 

"  Papa,"  the  rosy  lips  close  to  his,  and  the  voice 
quivering  a  little,  "  I  don't  like  to  be  talked  about." 

"  To  be  talked  about  ?  Of  course  not  ;  but  I 
am  afraid  it  is  something  that  you  will  have  to 
endure,  my  little  lady.  Such  a  pretty  face  as 
yours  must  of  necessity  attract  attention." 

"  Ah  !  but,  papa,  I  don't  mean  that."  He  laughed 
at  the  sudden  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  but  he  did  not 
understand  how  much  a  part  of  her  life  it  had  -be- 
come to  be  admired  and  flattered  ;  nor,  under- 
standing it,  was  he  well  enough  versed  in  the 
human  heart  to  realize  what  an  element  of  danger 
it  was. 


FOREWARNED  "    AND    "  FOREARMED."  53 


"  I  mean,  papa,  being  gossiped  about  ill-naturedly, 
and  blamed  for  little  merry  things  which  have  no 
harm  in  them.  You  can't  think  how  dreadful  it  is 
to  a  girl  to  feel  that  she  is  been  talked  over  in  that 
way  by  people  who  dislike  her." 

Judge  Burnham's  face  gloomed  instantly. 

"  Of  what  are  you  speaking,  my  daughter  ? 
What  persons  choose  to  demean  themselves  by 
gossiping  about  you  ?  I  should  suppose  your 
father's  name  was  sufficient  to  protect  you." 

"  In  society,  of  course,  papa,  I  am  not  afraid  of  what 
can  be  said,  because  there  is  nothing  to  say  ;  but 
don't  you  know  how  two  women  can  get  together 
and  pick  a  girl  to  pieces  if  they  choose  ?  That 
Mrs.  Dennis  has  been  here  all  the  morning  closeted 
with  mamma,  and  I  can  just  imagine  how  she 
opened  her  great  big  eyes,  and  wrinkled  her  fore- 
head, and  shook  her  head,  and  looked  owlish  and 
hateful.  She  was  an  old  maid,  papa,  before  Dr. 
Dennis  married  her.  and  she  hasn't  any  sympathy 
with  girls,  and  never  had.  The  Armitages  say 
she  made  the  life  of  Dr.  Dennis'  daughter  per- 
fectly miserable,  and  they  were  really  thankful 
when  she  married.  And  now  she  must  come  pok- 
ing herself  into  my  affairs.  Do  you  think  I  need 
stand  anything  of  that  kind,  papa  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  Mrs.  Dennis  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  our  affairs,  and  her  sense  of 
propriety  should  teach  her  better  than  to  interfere, 
even   if   there  were   anything   for   her   to  try  to 


54  "  FOREWARNED  "    AND    "  FOREARMED." 

manage."  Nothing  could  be  haughtier  than  Judge 
Burnham's  tones  ;  his  daughter  had  touched  him 
at  a  sensitive  point.  He  had  always,  in  a  silent 
way,  resented  Mrs.  Dennis'  influence  over  his 
wife,  and  had  felt,  more  than  once,  that  he  owed 
some  of  the  discomforts  of  his  life  to  the  unreason- 
able degree  of  deference  which  Ruth  had  for  the 
opinions  of  both  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Dennis  ;  he  was  in 
no  mood  to  bear  patiently  with  any  word  from 
them. 

Nevertheless,  he  tried  to  speak  reasonably  to 
his  pretty  daughter. 

"But,  my  dear  little  girl,  why  should  you  sup- 
pose that  the  ladies  spent  their  time  in  discussing 
you  ?  Certainly  there  could  be  no  object  in  their 
doing  so.  Isn't  that  a  little  bit  of  imagining  on 
your  part  ? ' ' 

"  Oh  !  no,  indeed  ;  I  have  only  too  good  reason 
to  believe  that  I  was  the  subject  of  their  talk. 
Mrs.  Dennis  was  no  sooner  out  of  the  house  than 
mamma  sent  for  me,  and  read  me  such  a  lecture  as 
I  never  received  before  ;  and  it  was  so  unlike  her, 
that  I  knew  the  source  from  which  it  came,  even 
before  she  mentioned  her  caller's  name." 

Judge  Burnham  drew  himself  to  an  upright  post- 
ure, and  the  frown  on  his  face  would  have  fright- 
ened Erskine. 

"  I  do  not  understand,  Minta  ;  your  mamma  lect- 
ured you  !  What  was  the  subject  ?  And  she  told 
you  that  she  had  been  advised  to  such  a  course  of 


"forewarned"  and  "forearmed."       55 

action  by  her  friend  Mrs.  Dennis  !  That  is  hardly 
possible  ;  Mrs.  Burnham  is  a  lady  !  " 

"  Not  exactly  that,  papa,  but  Mrs.  Dennis  had 
been  telling  her  some  tiresome  story  about  Mr. 
Hamlin ;  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  ;  and 
mamma  said  something  about  it  being  very  im- 
proper in  you  to  allow  me  to  ride  with  him,  and  said 
I  should  not.  And  he  was  waiting  for  me  at  that 
moment  to  ride.  I  told  her  that  as  you  had  never 
objected  to  my  going  out  with  him,  of  course  I  had 
no  excuse  to  offer  this  morning ;  so  I  went  as 
usual ;  but  all  the  afternoon  she  has  been  cold  and 
disagreeable  ;  I  know  she  will  tell  you  a  long  story 
about  me ;  and  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  think 
naughty  things  of  me,  papa  ;  and,  O  dear !  I  am  so 
miserable.  If  mamma  didn't  dislike  Seraph  and 
me  so  much  !  " 

It  was  put  into  words  at  last,  this  tacit  disa- 
greement between  the  mistress  and  the  daughters, 
which  had  been  growing  up  so  long  and  which 
Judge  Burnham  had  dimly  felt,  rather  than  real- 
ized. He  was  man  enough  to  wince  under  it  ;  he 
did  not  like  to  hear  his  wife  referred  to  in  that 
manner. 

"  You  should  not  speak  in  that  way  of  your 
mamma,  Minta ;  she  is  my  wife,  remember,  and  it 
is  foolish  to  say  that  she  dislikes  you  and  Seraph  ; 
there  could  be  no  possible  reason  for  such  a 
feeling." 

The  beauty  sat  erect  now,  and  looked  full  into 


56  "  FOREWARNED  "    AND    "  FOREARMED." 

her  father's  face  with  those  witching  eyes.  She 
must  make  the  most  of  this  opportunity,  for  on 
her  skillful  handling  of  the  subject  might  hang 
much  of  her  future  happiness,  as  she,  poor  silly 
girl,  viewed  happiness. 

"  Papa,  you  don't  know ;  you  are  very  wise  and 
learned,  and  Seraph  and  I  are  just  as  proud  of 
you  as  we  can  be  ;  but  there  are  some  things  you 
don't  understand  so  well  as  we  two  girls.  Don't 
you  know  mamma  is  jealous  of  us  ?  She  wants 
you  all  to  herself;  she  cannot  bear  to  share  you 
with  two  young  ladies  ;  it  was  well  enough  when 
we  were  children,  and  she  could  send  us  away 
when  she  didn't  want  us  in  the  room  ;  but  in  these 
late  years  it  is  different;  and  she  —  she  doesn't 
mean  to  dislike  us,  perhaps,  but  she  almost  can't 
help  it ;  especially  when  she  is  influenced  in  that 
way  by  her  friend  Mrs.  Dennis  ;  and  don't  you  see 
what  a  temptation  it  is  to  find  fault  with  us  about 
every  little  thing  —  our  taste  and  our  company 
and  everything?  Why,  she  even  sets  Erskine 
against  us!  He  told  us  yesterday  that  he  could 
not  stay  up  in  our  room  because  mamma  would 
not  like  it." 

She  had  stated  the  truth,  this  truthful  young 
lady,  but  she  had  omitted  to  add  what  Erskine 
had,  that  mamma  would  not  like  it,  because  the 
clock  was  striking  the  hour  when  he  took  his  daily 
lesson  in  her  room. 

Judge  Erskine  sat  appalled  before  these  revela- 


"  FOREWARNED  "    AND    "  FOREARMED."  57 


tions.  Was  his  daughter  right  ?  Was  this  the 
explanation  of  his  wife's  coldness  and  dignity,  and 
persistent  thwarting  of  his  plans  and  tastes  ?  Was 
she  even  trying  to  turn  the  heart  of  his  little  son 
away  from  him  ? 

Minta,  watching  his  face,  eager  over  his  possible 
thoughts,  suddenly  put  her  lovely  golden  head  on 
his  shoulder  in  a  caressing  way,  and  let  her  white 
and  shapely  fingers  toy  with  the  beard  that  was 
now  plentifully  streaked  with  gray,  and  said  in  a 
sweet  and  plaintive  tone,  — 

"  Isn't  it  hard,  papa,  when  you  are  our  very  own 
father  and  we  have  only  you  ?  " 

Had  they  had  even  him  before  this  mother, 
whose  place  the  young  lady  was  now  trying  to 
undermine,  came  into  his  home  ?  Was  it  possible 
that  neither  of  them  thought  of  the  years  of  abso- 
lute neglect  which  that  father  had  given  them, 
until  the  new  wife  roused  him,  rather  forced  him, 
to  his  duty  ? 

I  really  do  not  think  that  Judge  Burnham 
thought  of  it;  men  are  very  queer  —  some  men; 
he  had  let  that  unpleasant  memory  drop  out  of  his 
life  as  much  as  possible.  These  were  his  daugh- 
ters now,  admired,  sought  after ;  even  the  famous 
criminal  lawyer  congratulated  him  occasionally  on 
their  exceeding  beauty  and  grace  ;  why  should  he 
go  back  into  that  awkward  past  ?  As  for  Minta, 
she  remembered  it  well ;  she  was  one  of  those  who 
do  not  easily  forget ;  on  occasion  she  could  have 


58        "forewarned"  and  "forearmed." 

confronted  her  father  with  a  story  which  would 
have  made  his  face  burn  with  shame ;  but  she  had, 
just  now,  a  point  to  carry  ;  something  must  be 
done  to  forestall  her  step-mother's  story,  whatever 
it  was,  and  leave  her  free  to  follow  what  she 
thought  was  happiness.  It  was  not  all  pride,  the 
motive  which  pressed  her  forward  ;  there  was  an 
underlying  influence  that  came  from  a  meaner 
nature  than  hers,  and  which  held  possession  of 
her  heart. 

They  were  interrupted ;  Erskine  danced  through 
the  hall,  sprang  toward  his  father  for  the  caress 
which  he  always  claimed,  and  then  delivered  his 
message. 

"  Papa,  mamma  would  like  to  see  you  in  her 
room  before  dinner,  if  you  please,  and  if  you  have 
time." 

It  was  a  most  inopportune  moment  for  Ruth's 
summons.  The  meaning  look —  half  appeal,  half 
terror  —  which  Minta  gave  him,  did  not  escape 
the  Judge's  notice.  He  looked  stern  enough  to 
have  charged  a  jury  in  a  case  of  high  crime,  but 
his  manner  was  kindness  itself  to  Minta. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said,  rising,  and  putting  her  from 
him  gently  ;  "  Erskine,  tell  your  mamma  I  will  be 
there  in  a  moment ;  "  and  as  the  child  sped  away, 
he  added  :  "  And,  Minta,  my  daughter,  I  hope  to 
hear  no  more  of  this  nonsense,  born  of  over-sensitive 
nerves  ;  it  is  quite  natural  for  you  to  have  them. 
The  Burnhams,  unfortunately,  are  a  sensitive  race. 


"  FOREWARNED        AND    "  FOREARMED.  59 

But  your  mamma  has  not  the  disposition  which 
you  imagine.  From  the  very  first  of  my  intimate 
acquaintance  with  her,  she  took  the  deepest  inter- 
est in  you  two  girls." 

His  daughter  sighed,  and  looked  steadily  at  him 
with  those  appealing  eyes. 

"  As  for  this  gossip,  whatever  it  is,"  he  made 
haste  to  say,  "  of  course  we  desire  and  will  toler- 
ate no  interference  from  Mrs.  Dennis  or  from  any 
outsider.  You  may  rest  assured  that  no  other 
commands  than  mine  need  trouble  your  con- 
science very  much." 

So  saying  he  ran  up-stairs  to  the  blue  room. 
Ruth  was  waiting  for  him  with  a  feverish  nervous- 
ness, which  was  of  itself  calculated  to  make  her 
words  ill-chosen.  She  felt  the  importance  of 
speaking  at  once,  for  from  her  standpoint  this 
was  serious  business  ;  and  yet  she  shrank  from  it 
with  a  degree  of  timidity  which  humiliated  her. 
Judge  Burnham  came  toward  her  with  his  accus- 
tomed greeting  and  spoke  carelessly :  — 

"  Erskine  said  you  wanted  to  see  me  here. 
What  can   I  do  for  your  comfort  ? " 

"Nothing  for  me,  thank  you  ;  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  you  about  Minta.  I  have  heard  that  to-day 
which  I  am  afraid  will  give  you  great  anxiety. 
Judge  Burnham,  do  you  know  this  young  Hamlin 
with  whom  she  rides  and  walks  ?  " 

"O,  yes!  I  know  him  as  the  grandson  of  one 
of  the  most   famous  lawyers  wc  ever  had  in  the 


60  "  FOREWARNED  "    AND    "  FOREARMED." 

State.  Why  do  you  ask  ?  Has  he  been  so  un- 
fortunate as  to  come  under  the  ban  of  your 
displeasure  ? " 

He  spoke  in  a  bantering  tone,  with  an  evident 
intention  of  turning  her  warning,  whatever  it  was, 
into  ridicule.     It  did  not  serve  to  quiet  her  nerves. 

"  I  was  aware  that  you  knew  his  grandfather,  " 
she  said,  with  heightened  color.  "  It  was  about 
the  young  man  himself  that  I  was  inquiring.  I 
have  not  the  honor  of  his  acquaintance,  so  my 
personal  feelings  are  not  at  stake.  What  I  want 
is  simply  to  inquire  whether  you  are  sure  he  is  the 
sort  of  person  you  desire  as  an  associate  for  your 
daughter  ? " 

"  As  to  that,  I  am  not  so  foolish  as  to  suppose 
that  my  daughter  is  going  to  gauge  all  her  friend- 
ships to  suit  my  individual  tastes.  The  young 
man  is  well  enough,  I  presume." 

"Then  I  am  afraid  you  are  mistaken.  Really, 
Judge  Burnham,  I  wish  you  would  give  me  your 
attention  a  few  minutes.  I  have  that  to  tell  you 
which  is  certainly  not  pleasant  for  me  to  repeat, 
but  which  I  think  you  ought  to  hear." 

For  by  this  time  the  Judge  had  passed  on  into 
his  dressing-room,  and  was  giving  attention  to  his 
toilet. 

"I  can  hear  you,  "  he  called,  with  his  face  partly 
submerged  in  water  ;  "  proceed  with  your  testi- 
mony." 

It  was  not  a  comfortable  way  in  which  to  talk ; 


"FOREWARNED        AND    "FOREARMED.  6 1 

it  did  not  lessen  his  wife's  discomfort.  She  made 
her  words  as  few  and  emphatic  as  possible.  By 
the  time  she  had  finished,  he  emerged  again  from 
his  dressing-room. 

"Where  did  you  hear  this  precious  tale?"  he 
questioned,  employed,  meanwhile,  in  polishing  his 
shapely  finger-nails. 

Ruth  felt  annoyed,  because  with  her  reply  came 
a  deep  flush  that  mounted  even  to  her  forehead. 
She  knew  by  a  sort  of  instinct  that  he  did  not  like 
her  informant. 

"Mrs.  Dennis  came  to  see  me  this  morning  for 
the  express  purpose  of  warning  us  of  danger,"  she 
replied. 

"  Very  kind,  certainly." 

There  was  that  in  the  tone  which  was  extremely 
irritating  to  excited  nerves.  The  utmost  his  wife 
could  do  was  to  hold  herself  in  silence  until  he 
should  choose  to  speak  again. 

"  Your  friend  Mrs.  Dennis  must  be  kept  exceed- 
ingly busy  if  she  takes  the  affairs  of  all  the  young 
people  of  other  parishes  on  her  hands,  as  well  as 
attending  to  her  own.  Isn't  she  aware  that  we 
are  out  of  the  pale  of  her  ministrations  ? " 

"  Judge  Burnham,  I  did  not  suppose  this  sub- 
ject would  impress  you  as  being  simply  food  for 
ridicule.  Mrs.  Dennis's  sole  motive  was  the  desire 
to  do  as  she  would  be  done  by." 

"  I  would  not  question  a  lady's  motives,  but  her 
sources    of    information   may   often   be  at   fault. 


62     "  FOREWARNED  "  AND  "  FOREARMED." 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  gossip  afloat  in  this  wicked 
world,  that  true  ladies  would  do  well  to  avoid.  I 
am  sorry  Mrs.  Dennis  thought  it  necessary  to  pour 
any  of  this  into  my  wife's  ears." 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  answer  you." 

Ruth's  voice  was  dropping  into  a  still  lower 
key,  and  she  was  struggling  hard  to  maintain  her 
self-control. 

"  You  receive  this  warning  in  such  a  different 
spirit  from  what  I  supposed  you  would  !  Is  it 
possible  that  you  do  not  understand  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Dennis  well  enough  to  know  that  they  would  be 
sure  of  their  facts  before  they  came  to  me  with 
them  ?  Do  you  forget  that  Dr.  Dennis  is  a  cler- 
gyman, and  that  his  profession  gives  him  oppor- 
tunities of  knowing  what  may  be  unknown  to 
others  ? " 

Judge  Burnham  shrugged  his  handsome  shoul- 
ders in  a  very  exasperating  way. 

"  I  knew,  "  he  said,  "that  clergymen  were  rather 
given,  as  a  class,  to  prying  into  other  people's 
affairs ;  but  I  was  not  aware  that  they  managed  a 
moral  sewerage,  through  which  all  the  scum  of  the 
city  had  to  pass.  Upon  my  word,  I  should  want 
to  introduce  patent  '  traps '  into  my  house  to  keep 
out  the  odor." 

And  now  I  am  sure  you  will  almost  forgive  Mrs. 
Burnham  for  being  exceedingly  angry.  Up  to 
this  moment  she  had  occupied  her  favorite  seat  in 
the  room  —  a  low  rocker  by  the  south  window  — 


"  FOREWARNED  "    AND    "  FOREARMED."  63 

but  she  now  arose,  and,  moving  a  step  or  two  for- 
ward, confronted  her  husband  with  steady  gaze  as 
she  spoke,  "Judge  Burnham,  I  beg  you  to  remem- 
ber that  you  are  speaking  to  your  wife  about  the 
honored  pastor  of  her  dead  father ;  and  that  she 
will  not  tolerate  such  language  concerning  him 
even  from  you." 


C\  DRIFTING. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


DRIFTING. 


A  MORE  obtuse  man  than  Judge  Burnham 
was,  could  have  easily  seen  that  he  had 
gone  too  far.  He  did  plainly  see  it ;  he  had  no 
intention  of  hurting  his  wife's  feelings,  but  his 
haughty  pride  had  risen  against  the  thought  that 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Dennis  had  been  discussing  his 
family  affairs,  and  had  even  drawn  his  wife  into 
the  discussion.  This,  coupled  with  his  talk  with 
Minta,  had  made  him  unreasonably  angry.  He 
chose,  however,  to  pass  it  all  off  lightly. 

He  came  toward  his  wife,  speaking  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  his  natural  tone :  "  My  dear  Ruth, 
don't  go  into  heroics  ;  sit  down  and  be  comfort- 
able. I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  hurt  your  feelings ; 
I  had  no  intention  of  doing  so ;  it  was  your  own 
remark  which  suggested  my  unfortunate  illustra- 
tion. Now,  let  us  understand  each  other.  As  to 
the  share  which  your  friend  Mrs.  Dennis  had  in' 
this  matter,  I  am  grateful  for  her  intentions,  but 
not  for  the  fact.  She  should  not  have  burdened 
you  with  anything  of  the  kind.     If  her  husband, 


DRIFTING.  65 

as  a  gentleman,  has  any  information  which  he 
thinks  I  ought  to  receive,  let  him  communicate 
with  me,  not  send  his  wife  to  gossip  with  you  ; 
pardon  the  word,  my  dear,  I  mean  no  offense.  In 
point  of  fact,  I  attach  exceedingly  slight  impor- 
tance to  the  information.  Young  Hamlin  is  not 
absolutely  perfect,  I  suppose  ;  few  men  are ;  but 
he  belongs  to  an  excellent  family  and  cannot 
have  gotten  very  far  astray  without  my  know- 
ing it.  The  truth  is,  that  clergymen  live  very 
secluded  lives  —  up  in  the  clouds,  most  of  the 
time  ;  or,  if  you  like  the  idea  better,  above  the 
clouds,  in  air  so  pure  that  they  cannot  understand 
matters  which  are  of  the  earth,  earthy,  and  are 
very  poor  judges  of  what  is  going  on.  They  are 
continually  given  to  making  mole-hills  into  mount- 
ains. Their  ideas  of  business  are  simply  absurd  ; 
might  do  for  the  angels,  but  not  for  mortals.  Now, 
I  hope  I  have  given  your  friend  a  sufficiently  exalted 
character,  and  also  shown  you  the  folly  of  depend- 
ing too  much  on  his  opinions." 

Ruth  had  suffered  herself  to  be  replaced  in  her 
chair,  and  had  so  far  overcome  her  excitement 
that  she  could  answer  this  half-bantering,  half- 
serious   statement  with  quiet  voice  and  manner. 

"  I  did  not  present  opinions  to  you,  Judge 
Burnham,  but  facts  which  can  easily  be  proven  ; 
for  I  gave  you  names  and  dates.  I  was  so  far 
impressed  with  the  importance  of  them,  that  I  did 
what  I  could    to    hold  your  daughter   away  from 


66  DRIFTING. 

association  with  the  villain,  at  least  until  you 
should  know  the  facts,  even  to  giving  what  was 
equivalent  to  a  command  ;  but  it  proved  of  no 
avail." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that."  Judge  Burnham's 
manner  was  grave  now.  "  Minta  should  not  have 
disregarded  your  expressed  wishes.  As  to  com- 
mands, we  must  both  remember  that  the  girls  are 
too  old  to  be  treated  as  children  ;  being  legally  of 
age,  they  of  course  have  a  right  to  choose  their 
society  ;  but  I  trust  they  are  too  entirely  ladies  to 
often  disregard  your  courteously  expressed  wishes. 
Perhaps  we  must,  in  this  case,  make  allowance  for 
undue  excitement  under  great  provocation.  If  I 
am  correctly  impressed  as  to  family  affairs,  you 
do  not  often  notice  what  callers  the  young  ladies 
have,  and  as,  in  my  absence,  they  are  shut  up  to 
the  necessity  of  receiving  their  friends  and  paying 
their  visits  quite  alone,  perhaps  it  is  not  strange 
that  they  should  sometimes  make  unfortunate  se- 
lections, nor,  indeed,  that  they  should  wince  under 
sudden  commands." 

"  Judge  Burnham,  am  I  to  understand  that  you 
disapprove  of  having  your  daughters  receive  calls 
and  pay  visits  without  me  ?  Are  you  not  aware 
that  they  decidedly  prefer  my  absence ;  that,  in- 
deed, they  would  resent  any  attempts  of  this  kind 
as  an  infringement  on  their  liberties?" 

Judge  Burnham  changed  the  graceful  position 
which  he  had  assumed,  before  her,  with  one  arm 


DRIFTING.  67 

resting  on  the  mantel,  and  his  handsome  eyes 
fixed  on  her.  He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair 
in  a  weary  way,  walked  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  a  moment,  then  turned  back  and  spoke  as  one 
bored  to  death. 

"  My  dear  wife,  it  is  worse  than  useless  for  you 
and  me  to  talk  all  these  things  over  ;  I  have  no 
disposition  to  be  a  household  tyrant  toward  either 
my  wife  or  my  daughters.  I  would  have  them  all 
enjoy  themselves  in  their  own  way,  if  they  can. 
That  you  have  chosen  a  peculiar  way,  in  holding 
yourself  almost  entirely  aloof  from  the  society 
which  naturally  seeks  us,  is,  of  course,  far  from 
agreeable  to  me,  nor  can  I  fail  to  see  that  it  does 
not  contribute  materially  to  your  happiness. 

"  That  the  girls  have  become  accustomed  to 
receiving  their  friends,  and  visiting  them,  without 
you,  is  certainly  not  strange  ;  what  else  would  you 
have  them  do  ?  Having  perforce  educated  them 
to  this  course  it  would  be  unreasonable  to  expect 
them  to  look  for,  or  desire,  any  other  way.  You 
surely  know  that  you  have  sought  your  own  inter- 
ests, and  left  them  to  seek  theirs  until  naturally 
enough  they  have  done  so  :  and,  after  all,  Ruth, 
—  it  is  just  as  well  that  we  should  remember  it  — 
you  really  are  not  their  mother,  you  know. 

"  However,  as  to  society,  there  is  no  occasion 
for  grievance  on  that  score ;  I  am  still  in  a  condi- 
tion to  be  glad  of  having  your  company  ;  whenever 
you  shall  choose  to  come  out  of  your  recluse  state, 


68  DRIFTING. 

I  promise  you  society  enough,  and  of  a  perfectly 
unobjectionable  stamp.  And  now,  cannot  we 
dismiss  all  disagreeable  subjects  and  go  down  to 
dinner?  I  think  it  must  be  at  least  ten  minutes 
since  the  bell  rang." 

So  this  was  the  end  of  her  honest  and  painful 
effort  to  serve  her  husband's  daughter  ! 

"After  all,  you  are  not  their  mother,  you  know." 
Yes,  she  knew  it  only  too  well.  Did  she  not 
know  by  the  loving,  clinging  kisses  of  her  own  boy 
what  it  was  to  be  really  a  mother  ?  Yet  what  had 
she  not  done  for  those  girls  ?  Had  they  known 
any  other  mother  than  herself  ?  There  was  cer- 
tainly in  their  hearts  no  idol  enthroned  into  whose 
place  she  had  rudely  come.  Minta,  at  least,  did  not 
remember  her  mother  at  all ;  and  Seraph,  but  as  a 
dim  and  flitting  shadow.  Why  could  not  these 
girls  have  given  to  her  the  loyalty  and  attention 
which  a  mother  has  a  right  to  expect  at  the  hands 
of  grown-up  daughters  ?  Alas  for  Ruth,  that  she 
did  not  realize,  even  yet,  how  surely  some  of  the 
fault  was  her  own  !  She  had  taken  hold  of  duty, 
it  is  true,  with  stern  hands,  and  ordered  their  out- 
ward lives  in  a  fashion  that  she  had  supposed 
would  mean  fairyland  to  them  ;  but  she  had  been 
content  with  this.  Into  their  hearts  as  a  central 
force  moved  under  the  impulse  of  love,  she  had 
never  tried  to  come.  She  had  not  planned  to  have 
the  sweets  of  fairyland  intoxicate  them  until  their 
brains  were   too   dizzy  to   lock  beyond  the  new, 


DRIFTING.  69 

dazzling  outward  life  ;  but,  left  amid  its  glories  to 
revel  for  themselves,  what  wonder  that  just  this 
thing  happened  ?  I  want  to  emphasize  the  thought 
just  here,  that  the  grave  mistake  in  this  step- 
mother's life,  even  now,  was  in  not  recognizing 
and  accepting  the  fact  that  part  of  the  fault  for 
this  condition  of  things  was  her  own.  She  did  not 
recognize  it ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  done 
her  duty  —  full  measure,  pressed  down,  and,  indeed, 
sometimes  running  over  —  by  these  girls.  Had  she 
not  given  up  the  joy  of  that  first  year  of  married 
life  alone  with  one's  husband,  for  their  sakes  ? 
Had  she  not  pressed  their  claims  firmly  and  tri- 
umphantly, even  against  his  will  ?  And  how  had 
they  rewarded  her  for  it  ? 

She  could  have  wept  bitter  tears,  but  she  did 
not  ;  instead,  she  went  down  with  her  husband  to 
the  waiting  dinner,  and  took  her  place  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  and  listened  as  usual  to  the  chatter  of 
a  hundred  gay  nothings.  Apparently,  Minta  had 
recovered  her  spirits  ;  she  said  not  a  word  to  her 
step-mother,  unless  her  flashing  eyes  spoke  for  her  ; 
their  language  was  :  "  You  and  I  have  measured 
weapons,  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  mine  are  the  keen- 
est. There  is  no  use  for  you  to  try  to  poison  my 
father  against  me  ;  I  secured  the  first  hearing." 
To  her  father  she  was  all  smiles  and  winning 
ways,  with  a  pretty  little  undertone  air  of  grati- 
tude which  sat  most  gracefully  upon  her. 

However,  to  do  Judge    Burnham's  good   sense 


70  DRIFTING. 

strict  justice,  he  was  by  no  means  so  much  at  ease 
about  the  young  man  who  had  created  this  breeze 
as  he  chose  to  have  his  wife  think.  Not  that  he 
credited  a  third  of  the  story  that  had  come  to 
him.  He  had  much  faith  in  the  statements  which 
he  had  made,  that  clergymen  knew  little  or  nothing 
about  the  doings  of  this  world  ;  and  he  should 
quite  expect  that  what  was  considered  fair  enough 
in  the  business  world,  might  look  black  to  Dr. 
Dennis.  Knowing  nothing,  practically,  of  the  lives 
of  ministers  of  the  gospel,  being  unaware  to  what 
extent  they  are  trusted  by  all  sorts  of  people  with 
inner  histories,  how,  indeed,  the  faithful  pastor  be- 
comes, in  time,  almost  a  receptacle  for  all  that  is 
sorrowful  or  terrible  in  the  circle  of  his  influence, 
and  by  this  very  process  grows  keen-sighted,  he 
actually  believed  that,  of  all  persons,  a  clergyman 
was  the  one  most  likely  to  be  imposed  upon. 
Still,  this  young  man  must  be  looked  after  ;  he 
admitted  to  himself  that  it  was  true  enough  that 
he  knew  a  great  deal  about  his  grandfather,  and 
very  little  about  him.  He  must  make  some  in- 
quiries speedily. 

Pending  these,  he  detained  Minta  in  the  library 
as  the  others  were  passing  out. 

"  See  here,  daughter,  about  this  young  Hamlin ; 
there  is  nothing  of  any  importance  between  you 
and  him,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Why,  papa,  how  should  there  be  ?  I  have  only 
known  him  a  little  over  two  months." 


DRIFTING.  ^I 

"  True  ;  and  that  is  not  time  enough  in  which  to 
develop  a  special  interest,  eh  ?  "  and  he  smiled  on 
her  pleasantly.  "  I  think  you  cannot  be  very  seri- 
ously inclined,  and  I  should  not  want  you  to  be, 
you  know,  with  a  stranger." 

"  Of  course  not,  papa ;  nor  without  telling  you 
about  it  either.  The  girls  in  our  set  are  very  fond 
of  riding  with  him  because  he  drives  such  magnifi- 
cent horses,  and  he  seems  to  be  fond  of  inviting 
me,  and  of  course  I  like  it  ever  so  much,  because 
it  is  such  fun  to  have  all  the  girls  envy  me." 

"  That  is  the  whole  story,  is  it  ?  Very  well  ;  I 
do  not  find  it  alarming.  But,  see  here,  daughter, 
you  must  make  all  due  allowance  for  your  mamma. 
It  is  genuine  regard  for  your  interests  that  actu- 
ates her  —  nothing  else  ;  she  was  brought  up  by  a 
father  who  had  exceedingly  strict  —  not  to  say 
narrow  —  views  about  some  things,  and  of  course 
his  opinions  color  all  her  feelings  ;  as  a  true  lady, 
you  must  respect  her  views,  and  even  her  preju- 
dices, as  much  as  you  can." 

The  beautiful  lips  pouted  a  little,  a  very  little,  not 
unbecomingly,  and  made  answer,  "  Very  well,  papa, 
I'll  try  ;  but  I  should  think  she  might  trust  me  to 
you."    The  last  pronoun  pronounced  very  lovingly. 

The  father,  fed  by  pride  which  was  the  chief 
source  of  his  inner  strength,  smiled  on  her  again, 
and  dismissed  the  subject  with  the  mental  deter- 
mination to  look  carefully,  nevertheless,  into  this 
young  man's  history  without  further  delay.     But 


J2  DRIFTING. 

he  did  not ;  the  next  was  an  unusually  busy  day 
with  him  in  his  office,  and  at  the  home  dinner- 
table  Seraph  announced  in  the  course  of  conver- 
sation, that  the  Hamlins  were  to  leave  that  evening 
for  a  six  weeks'  trip  to  California.  The  girls  had 
coaxed  their  cousin  into  taking  them  ;  and  beside, 
his  uncle  wanted  him  to  go  on  some  business,  they 
believed  ;  but  he  did  not  like  the  idea ;  he  said  the 
whole  thing  was  a  "  bore." 

"  And  I  agree  with  him,"  Minta  said,  with  a 
merry  little  laugh.  u  I'm  ever  so  sorry  to  have 
him  go ;  he  is  the  only  real  good  company  there  is 
among  the  gentlemen  ;  he  is  so  witty,  and  beside, 
he  is  going  to  send  his  horses  into  the  country 
while  he  is  gone." 

Her  father  laughed,  asked  her  if  she  was  certain 
which  she  was  the  more  sorry  about,  the  absence 
of  the  gentleman  or  of  his  horses  ;  and  then  he 
told  himself  that  for  his  part  he  was  glad  young 
Hamlin  was  going  ;  it  would  give  him  time  to  look 
up  that  story  more  quietly,  and  see  if  it  had  any 
foundation  ;  it  was  just  as  well  to  be  careful  about 
these  things,  though  in  six  weeks,  probably,  his 
pretty  daughter  would  have  transferred  her  inter- 
est, which  was  evidently  slight,  to  some  other 
young  gentleman  who  drove  fast  horses. 

As  for  Mrs.  Burnham,  she  felt  indignant  that 
the  name  which  had  come  to  be  associated  in  her 
mind  with  disgrace,  should  be  so  freely  on  the  lips 
of  father  and  daughter. 


DRIFTING.  73 

And  to  show  you  how  little  progress  she  was 
really  making  in  her  Christian  life  during  these 
days,  I  shall  have  to  confess  to  you  that  she  said, 
as  she  went  up  the  stairs  that  night,  that  she  at 
least  had  done  her  duty,  and  should  not  interfere 
again ;  no,  not  if  she  saw  his  daughter  on  the  very 
verge  of  ruin.  She  had  made  an  earnest  effort, 
and  failed.  No  one  certainly  could  blame  her  now 
for  holding  utterly  aloof  from  it  all. 

I  do  not  think  she  meant  all  this.  I  think  she 
would  have  put  out  her  hand  promptly  enough  to 
interfere  if  she  had  seen  danger,  and  known  which 
way  to  move  the  hand.  But  that  she  could  harbor 
these  thoughts,  even  when  action  was  not  required, 
will  show  you  (if  you  are  one  of  those  who  desire 
to  be  conformed  to  His  image)  how  feeble  the 
flame  was  which  burned  in  this  poor  heart. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon  again  ;  nearly  two 
weeks  after  the  domestic  ruffle  which  Mrs.  Dennis's 
visit  had  occasioned.  Mrs.  Burnham  was  in  her 
own  room  with  Erskine  —  a  thing  which  was  be- 
coming habitual  with  her  on  Sunday  afternoons. 
Indeed,  the  Sabbath  had  become  a  day  of  special 
trial  to  this  much-tried  woman.  Very  gradually, 
so  that  she  had  not  realized  it  at  first,  a  state  of 
things  had  crept  into  her  own  house  which  she 
utterly  disapproved,  yet  found  herself  powerless 
to  control.  Attendance  at  church  had  not  been  a 
very  regular  thing  of  late  years,  even  on  her  own 
part.     Much  of  the  time  either  the  weather,  or 


74  DRIFTING. 

Erskine's  state  of  health  made  it  necessary,  in  his 
mother's  estimation,  for  him  to  remain  at  home  ; 
and  she  had  made  it  a  matter  of  principle  to  remain 
with  him,  both  in  order  that  his  childhood  memo- 
ries of  the  Sabbath  might  be  sweetly  associated 
with  her,  and  because  she  had  no  one  in  her  employ 
with  whom  she  was  willing  to  leave  a  child. 

The  young  ladies  were  often  so  weary  of  a  Sab- 
bath —  by  reason  of  the  late  hours  of  the  night 
before — as  to  unfit  them  for  church,  even  had  there 
been  any  desire  on  their  part  to  attend. .  When 
they  had  new  suits,  or  when  they  could  arrange 
for  a  trip  to  the  city,  or  when  a  stranger  was  to 
preach  in  their  church,  they  could  be  depended 
upon  for  morning  service.  But  circumstances 
with  them  were  as  likely  to  prove  unfavorable  as 
otherwise.  And  as  the  days  passed,  their  rule 
might  almost  be  said  to  be  to  lounge  through  the 
morning  in  wrappers  and  slippers,  and  go  to  the 
city  for  a  sacred  concert  at  night,  if  that  could  be 
satisfactorily  managed. 

Gradually  a  new  programme  crept  into  the  after- 
noon. At  first  it  was  a  messenger  from  the  choir 
leader,  petitioning  for  special  assistance  from 
Seraph,  whose  voice  was  worthy  of  her  name  when 
she  chose  to  use  it,  but  who  by  no  means  chose  to 
sing  often  in  church.  As  for  being  trammeled  by  a 
regular  engagement  there,  her  father  agreed  with 
her,  that  such  positions  "  would  better  be  left  for 
those  who  had  to  earn  their  own  living."     Yet 


DRIFTING.  75 

when  emergencies  arose,  she  would  graciously  lend 
her  aid  ;  and  the  choir  leader,  a  very  aristocratic 
young  man,  was,  if  the  truth  be  told,  quite  fond  of 
creating  emergencies,  and  of  being  his  own  messen- 
ger to  petition.  The  leading  tenor  was  also  very 
willing  to  join  in  the  plea,  and  when  they  were 
successful,  and  there  was  a  specially  difficult  num- 
ber to  render,  what  more  natural  than  that  they 
should  drop  in  during  the  afternoon  and  try  their 
voices  together  ?  This  being  found  necessary 
several  times,  it  was  thereby  discovered  that  it 
would  be  agreeable  to  practice  occasionally  of  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  in  order  to  be  ready  for  future 
contingencies  :  and  from  singing  to  chatting,  the 
transition  was  easy  enough. 

One  afternoon  the  choir  leader  brought  young 
Sherman  with  him  to  hear  Miss  Burnham  render  a 
solo,  and  prove  what  the  leader  had  said  ;  that  her 
voice  ran  clearer  on  the  high  notes  than  did  the 
celebrated  Miss  Hamlin's,  though  she  was  a  pro- 
fessional singer.  And  young  Sherman  enjoyed 
the  afternoon,  and  came  again ;  at  first  with  a 
flimsy  excuse  of  some  sort,  and  then  boldly,  with 
no  excuse  at  all.  And  he  brought  Mr.  Snowden 
with  him  on  occasion,  who,  if  not  musically  in- 
clined, was  "away  from  all  his  friends  and  dread- 
fully bored  with  Sundays,  and  it  was  only  a  charity 
to  help  him  get  through  with  the  hours."  Oh  !  I 
cannot  explain  how  it  all  was.  Mrs.  Burnham 
understood  only  this :    if    the   young   ladies    had 


j6  DRIFTING. 

said,  "We  are  going  to  have  a  social  gathering  on 
Sunday  afternoons  in  our  parlors,  "  Judge  Burnham 
would  have  opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  reminded 
them  that  the  customs  of  the  locality  in  which  they 
lived  were  not  in  accordance  with  such  gatherings, 
and,  on  the  whole,  it  would  not  be  wise ;  and  it 
could  have  been  controlled.  But  no  such  thing  had 
been  said,  or  even  hinted.  It  had  all  come  about 
by  the  most  natural  processes.  And  yet  the  fact 
was  apparent,  at  least  to  the  eyes  of  the  lady  of 
the  house,  that  their  parlors  on  Sunday  afternoons 
had  become  lounging  places,  not  only  for  young, 
but  middle-aged  gentlemen,  and  occasionally  ladies. 
Thus  much  by  way  of  explanation;  it  is  of  one 
particular  Sunday  afternoon  that  I  wish  to  tell  you. 


THE    UNEXPECTED.  JJ 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE     UNEXPECTED. 

TO  judge  from  the  sound,  a  much  merrier  time 
than  usual  was  being  enjoyed  in  the  par- 
lors :  snatches  of  music  not  suggestive  of  wor- 
ship, mingled  with  gay  laughter,  floated  up  to 
Mrs.  Burnham  over  the  broad  staircase,  serving 
to  make  Erskine  restless  and  inattentive.  He 
stopped  frequently  in  the  midst  of  his  Bible  les- 
son to  ask  :  "  Whose  voice  was  that  ?  What  do  you 
suppose  they  laughed  at  then  ?  Mamma,  do  you 
think  that  they  will  sing  that  song  in  church  to- 
night ?  "  and  dozens  of  kindred  questions.  It  was 
painfully  evident  that  the  sounds  of  mirth  below 
stairs  were  more  congenial  to  his  ear  than  the 
Bible  story  above. 

Finally  came  a  gentle  tap  on  their  closed  door, 
and  the  trim  young  girl  whose  duty  it  was  to  be 
always  in  readiness  to  do  errands  for  everybody, 
entered  softly  :  — 

"Judge  Burnham  would  like  to  have  Master 
Erskine  come  down-stairs  for  a  little  while,  if  you 
please." 


f8  THE    UNEXPECTED. 

The  little  boy  gave  a  merry  spring  from  the 
hassock  where  he  was  kneeling,  beside  his  mother, 
but  she  put  out  a  detaining  hand. 

"  Do  you  know  for  what,  Kate  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am  ;  he  only  said,  '  Tell  Master 
Erskine  to  come  to  his  papa  in  the  back  parlor.'  " 

"  Mamma,  I  must  go,  mustn't  I  ?  You  said  I 
must  always  go  when  papa  called." 

There  was  a  little  quivering  of  the  boy's  chin  ; 
he  was  evidently  much  afraid  that  the  promised 
pleasure  would  be  spoiled.  Still  his  mother  had 
no  answer  for  him. 

"  Who  are  in  the  parlors,  Kate  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  know,  ma'am  ;  Dr.  Whately  is 
there,  and  Mr.  Henderson,  and  I  don't  know  who 
else  ;  the  music-room  seemed  to  be  quite  full." 

Mrs.  Burnham  repressed  a  little  sigh  which  she 
did  not  wish  Kate  to  hear,  and  turned  to  the  ap- 
pealing eyes  of  her  boy. 

"  Certainly  you  will  go,  dear,  when  papa  calls  ; 
but  you  will  come  back  as  soon  as  you  can,  will 
you  not  ?     Remember  mamma  is  all  alone." 

He  gave  his  gay  little  promise,  too  impatient  to 
be  gone  to  stand  still  while  the  tender  fingers 
brushed  his  curls,  too  much  a  baby  to  detect  the 
pathos  in  those  words,  "All  alone." 

Kate  was  not  deaf  to  them,  however  ;  she  gave  a 
swift,  searching  look  at  her  mistress,  and  reported 
it  in  the  cook's  room  that  evening  as  her  opinion 
that  there  were  "  a  good  many  goings-on  in  this 


THE    UNEXPECTED.  79 

house  that  Mrs.  Burnham  did  not  like,  and  she 
didn't  believe  she  was  altogether  happy,  with  all 
her  grand  ways."  And  if  Mrs.  Burnham,  careful 
as  she  believes  herself  to  be,  does  not  guard  her 
sighs  and  her  tell-tale  face  more  carefully  in  the 
future,  before  she  is  aware,  the  kitchen  of  her  own 
home  not  only,  but  many  another  kitchen  will 
gossip  about  her  household  skeletons. 

She  set  the  door  wide  open  after  Erskine  had 
left  her,  feeling  painfully  the  loneliness,  made  so 
much  more  deep  by  the  constant  hum  of  conver- 
sation which  went  on  below,  and  putting  steadily 
back  the  inclination  to  bury  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  cry,  in  order  to  strain  her  ears  to  hear,  if  pos- 
sible, what  was  being  said  or  done  to  entertain 
Erskine.  It  was  the  first  time  her  shielding  care  of 
him  on  the  Sabbath  had  been  interfered  with.  She 
had  wondered  sometimes  over  it,  for  his  father  was 
very  fond  of  him,  and  delighted  to  hear  his  steady 
chatter  whenever  he  had  opportunity  to  "enter- 
tain papa."  Now  the  interruption  had  come  in 
the  shape  of  a  call  to  the  parlor,  to  join  in  the 
entertainment,  or,  at  least,  the  amusement  of  Sun- 
day guests.  Ruth  Erskine's  father,  long  years 
before  he  was  a  Christian,  had  frowned  upon  any 
attempt  to  commonize  the  Sabbath  day.  He 
might  read  his  newspapers,  or,  if  an  intricate  ques- 
tion was  before  him,  consult  his  great  tomes  of 
law,  but  he  did  those  things  decorously,  in  the 
quiet  of  his  own  study,  and  had  not  been  in  the 


80  THE    UNEXPECTED. 

habit  of  inviting  even  his  most  intimate  friends  to 
share  his  home  on  the  Sabbath.  Ruth  had  taken  it 
for  granted,  without  giving  the  matter  any  thought, 
that  all  gentlemen  of  culture  were  alike  in  this 
respect,  and  her  husband's  utter  indifference  to 
the  recent  innovations  had  been  a  revelation  and 
an  added  pain  to  her. 

She  saw  very  little,  indeed,  of  Judge  Burnham 
on  Sundays  now,  and  this,  too,  had  been  so  gradual 
a  process  that  she  had  not  roused  to  it  until  it  was 
an  accomplished  fact. 

Under  one  pretext  and  another  he  was  con- 
stantly excusing  himself  from  accompanying  her 
to  morning  service,  and  his  afternoons  were  gen- 
erally spent  in  the  library,  where  he  indulged  him- 
self in  stray  fragments  from  the  current  books  and 
magazines,  doing,  he  said,  the  only  light  reading 
for  which  his  busy  life  gave  him  time.  Ruth,  who 
used  to  join  him  there,  until  she  found  that  his 
constant  interruptions  and  outbursts  of  laughter 
over  Erskine's  quaint  remarks,  made  it  impossible 
for  her  to  hold  the  child's  attention  to  his  Bible 
lesson,  had  herself  set  the  fashion  of  going  with 
the  child  to  her  room  ;  at  first  she  intended  it  for 
but  a  little  while,  but  on  her  return  to  the  library, 
she  so  frequently  of  late  found  her  husband  absent 
in  the  parlors,  or  walking  about  his  grounds,  that 
she  had  dropped  the  custom  of  seeking  him,  and 
remained  all  the  afternoon  in  her  room.  He  used 
to  lounge  in,  a  little   before  dinner,  and   have   a 


THE    UNEXPECTED,  8l 

frolic  with  Erskine,  but  for  several  Sundays  he  had 
been  engaged  in  the  parlor,  and  then  had  gone  to 
town  for  an  evening  service,  leaving  his  wife  to 
absolute  solitude  after  Erskine  was  sleeping. 

Occasionally  Judge  Burnham  pronounced  him- 
self to  be  too  indolent  for  the  city  ;  and  then  this 
husband  and  wife,  who  grew  farther  apart  every 
day,  got  through  a  long  evening  as  best  they  could. 
Judge  Burnham,  doing  a  little  fragmentary  reading 
for  himself,  and  a  good  deal  of  yawning  and  sleep- 
ing, was  generally  the  one  to  propose  that  they 
retire  early,  as  he  had  a  hard  week  before  him.  A 
good  deal  of  this  was  genuine  fatigue,  for  it  was 
true  that,  as  he  grew  older,  he  absorbed  himself 
more  and  more  in  business,  and  Ruth  heard  it  from 
many  outside  sources  that  her  husband  had  taken 
very  high  rank  in  his  profession. 

She  mourned  much  over  these  wasted  hours,  but 
the  time  seemed  to  have  gone  by  when  she  could  do 
other  than  mourn.  She  had  offered  once  to  read 
aloud  to  him,  and  reminded  him  that  he  used  to 
like  her  reading,  but  he  answered  laughingly,  yet 
with  that  undertone  of  sarcasm  which  she  now 
heard  so  much,  that  that  was  before  such  a  great 
gulf  fixed  itself  between  their  tastes  ;  that  he  be- 
lieved each  had  grown  incapable  of  comprehending 
the  other's  literary  tastes ;  and  she  had  felt  too 
wounded  to  press  the  question,  so  they  had  con- 
tinued in  their  separate  ways. 

A  second  interruption  came  to  her  on  this  after- 


2,2  THE    UNEXPECTED. 

noon.  Kate  began,  —  "  Dr.  Whately's  compli- 
ments, and  if  it  was  agreeable,  he  would  like  to 
see  her  down-stairs  a  few  minutes." 

Ruth's  face  flushed  deeply.  She  was  at  a  loss 
to  understand  the  meaning  of  this.  Dr.  Whately 
was  not  an  old  friend  ;  he  was  a  comparatively 
new  acquaintance,  even  of  her  husband.  She  had 
met  him  by  accident  one  evening  in  the  library, 
and  had  taken  an  instant  dislike  to  his  face  and 
manner.  Since  that  time  his  calls  had  been  made 
almost  entirely  on  Sabbaths.  There  could  not  be 
a  shadow  of  professional  excuse  for  his  message, 
for  although  he  was  an  M.  D.,  Judge  Burnham  had 
laughingly  remarked  but  a  few  days  ago  that  he 
wore  his  title  as  an  ornament  rather  than  a  badge 
of  usefulness,  and  had  added  that  he  did  not  believe 
the  man  had  sufficient  energy  ever  to  become  a 
success  in  his  profession.  So,  although  her  hus- 
band occasionally  told  Ruth  that  she  grew  paler 
every  day,  and  ought  to  consult  a  physician,  cer- 
tainly Dr.  Whately  would  not  be  the  chosen  one. 

Had  the  gentleman  observed  her  habitual  ab- 
sence from  the  parlor  on  Sundays,  and  boldly 
determined  to  oblige  her  to  receive  him  ?  The 
thought  made  the  lady  so  indignant  that  she  almost 
sent  an  unexplained  refusal.  Still,  he  was  her  hus- 
band's guest.     What  ought  she  to  do  ? 

"  Kate,"  she  asked  abruptly  of  the  girl  who  was 
watching  her  curiously,  "  is  Judge  Burnham  in  the 
parlor  ?  " 


THE    UNEXPECTED.  83 

"  Yes'm  ;  it  was  he  who  sent  the  message." 

"  I  thought  you  said  it  was  Dr.  Whately.  Tell 
me  exactly  what  was  said,  please." 

"  Why,  Judge  Burnham  came  to  the  door  and 
spoke  to  me,  and  said  :  'Take  Dr.  Whately's  com- 
pliments to  Mrs.  Burnham,  and  say  to  her  that  he 
would  like  to  see  her  in  the  parlor. '  That  is  every 
word,  ma'am." 

"  Then  you  may  ask  Judge  Burnham  if  he  will 
be  kind  enough  to  come  to  my  room  for  a  moment, 
I  wish  to  speak  with  him." 

He  came  immediately,  and  with  an  air  of  con- 
cern. Was  anything  wrong  ?  Was  she  not  feeling 
well  ?     She  waited  for  no  preliminaries. 

"  Judge  Burnham,  will  you  tell  me  why  Dr. 
Whately  wishes  to  see  me  at  this  time  ?  " 

"  Why,  really,  my  dear,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can 
supply  a  motive  beyond  the  obvious  one  that  it  is 
natural  enough  for  a  gentleman  to  ask  to  see  the 
lady  of  the  house.  Does  it  strike  you  as  such  an 
unusual  proceeding  ? " 

"Very  unusual,  indeed.  Dr.  Whately  has  been 
here  sufficiently  often,  I  should  suppose,  to  have 
discovered  that  I  do  not  receive  calls  on  Sunday." 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear  Ruth,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve it  has  ever  dawned  upon  him  ;  he  is  not  of 
that  development.  I  imagine  it  just  occurred  to 
him  that  the  polite  thing  to  do  would  be  to  ask  for 
the  privilege  of  paying  his  respects  to  Mrs.  Burn- 
ham, and  he  immediately  did  so." 


84  THE    UNEXPECTED. 

"  Then  could  you  not  have  done  me  the  favor  of 
explaining  that  this  is  not  the  day  on  which  I 
receive  guests  ? " 

Her  manner  may  have  been  cold  and  haughty ; 
indeed,  on  reflection,  I  am  sure  it  was.  She  felt 
very  much  hurt  ;  whether  the  guest  had  intended 
it  as  an  embarrassment  or  not,  surely  her  husband 
was  sufficiently  conversant  with  her  views  to  have 
shielded  her  had  he  chosen  to  do  so.  She  remem- 
bered the  days  in  which,  thinking  very  differently 
from  her,  he  would  still  have  guarded  her  carefully 
from  any  annoyance  that  he  could.  I  don't  think 
he  remembered  them  just  then.  He  thought  only 
that  his  wife  was  making  herself  very  disagreeable 
about  a  small  matter.  He  had  a  way  of  lifting  his 
eyebrows,  and  smiling  slightly  behind  his  gray 
mustache.  It  always  irritated  Ruth,  that  smile. 
It  seemed  to  say  to  her,  "  You  have  put  yourself 
in  a  very  foolish  position,  and  the  only  thing  left 
for  you  to  do  is  to  make  your  way  out  of  it  as 
gracefully  as  possible."  He  gave  her  at  this  mo- 
ment that  peculiarly  irritating  look  and  smile. 

"Indeed,  Mrs.  Burnham,  that  is  expecting  al- 
most too  much  of  me.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be 
able  to  explain  why  my  wife  should  consider  it  a 
sin  to  come  down  to  her  own  parlor  for  a  moment 
and  say  a  courteous  good-afternoon  to  a  friend  of 
her  husband's,  with  whom  he  has  been  conversing 
for  the  last  half-hour.  The  peculiar  lens  necessary 
for  discovering  the  heinousness  of  an  action  like 


THE    UNEXPECTED.  85 

that,  even  when  done  on  the  Sabbath  day,  has 
been  by  nature  denied  me,  and  I  must  not  be  ex- 
pected to  rise  to  the  height  of  understanding  it. 
If  you  have  ever  so  slight  a  headache,  or  are  indis- 
posed in  any  way,  I  will  bear  your  regrets  with 
what  grace  I  can,  but  to  enter  into  the  metaphysics 
of  the  matter,  without  a  direct  message  from  you, 
ought  hardly  to  be  expected  of  a  sinner  like 
myself." 

He  expected  her  to  turn  from  him  in  cold  indig- 
nation, and  he  proposed  to  laugh  at  her  a  little  — ■ 
good-naturedly,  of  course  —  and  then  to  descend 
the  stairs  and  say  to  his  guest  that  Mrs.  Burnham 
was  not  feeling  equal  to  seeing  her  friends  that 
afternoon,  and  begged  that  the  gentleman  would 
kindly  excuse  her.  He  knew  just  how  to  do  it, 
politely,  cordially,  and  was  not  troubled  by  any 
conscience  whatever  in  the  matter.  But  his  wife's 
nerves  were  too  sore.  She  turned  from  him,  in- 
deed, and  her  face  burned.  But  there  were  other 
feelings  beside  indignation,  though  enough  of  that 
element  was  present,  or  she  would  not  have  done 
what  she  did  next. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  ;  "  I  did  not  know 
I  was  putting  too  heavy  a  strain  on  your  courtesy 
and  kindness  ;  I  will  give  my  message  in  person." 

She  swept  past  him  like  a  queen,  and  went 
swiftly  down  the  stairs.  He  followed  her,  still 
smiling,  the  uppermost  feeling  in  his  mind  being 
one  of  curiosity  as   to  what  she  would  do.     His 


86  THE    UNEXPECTED. 

wife  was  a  lady.  What  could  she  do  except  to 
receive  her  caller  graciously,  of  course  ? 

What  she  did,  was  to  move  with  the  manner  of 
a  princess  down  the  long  parlor  to  the  alcove 
where  Dr.  Whately  stood  by  the  piano.  She  ac- 
knowledged the  presence  of  the  younger  guests 
only  by  a  dignified  inclination  of  the  head  as  she 
went.  Her  voice  was  never  clearer  nor  colder  than 
when  she  said  :  — 

"  Dr.  Whately,  my  husband  wishes  me  to  say  to 
you  in  person  that  it  is  not  my  custom  to  receive 
my  friends  on  the  Sabbath  day.  It  is  a  matter 
which  is  very  well  understood  among  all  my  per- 
sonal friends.  Should  you  care  to  call  on  me 
at  any  time  during  the  week,  it  will  be  my  pleas- 
ure to  meet  you,  but  I  am  sure  you  will  excuse 
me  to-day." 

Judge  Burnham  was  directly  behind  her,  veiling 
his  astonishment  and  chagrin  as  a  well-trained  man 
of  the  world  can  do.  Ruth  turned  at  once  from 
the  amazed,  not  to  say  embarrassed,  Dr.  Whately 
and  addressed  her  husband  :  — 

"  Judge  Burnham,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to 
excuse  Erskine  from  the  parlor  ?  I  would  like  to 
take  him  with  me  to  my  room." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  "  the  gentleman  said,  his 
voice  perfectly  quiet ;  and  he  called  Erskine  in  his 
usual  tone,  kissed  him  graciously,  and  told  him 
mamma  wanted  him  now,  then  attended  his  wife 
quite  to  the  door,  and  held  it  open  for  her  to  pass, 


THE    UNEXPECTED.  87 

bowins:  as   she  did   so,   and   he  was  never  more 
angry  in  his  life. 

Poor  Mrs.  Burnham  !  of  all  that  embarrassed 
company  below  stairs — and  I  will  do  them  the 
justice  of  saying  that  they  were  embarrassed  —  I 
think  none  were  so  much  to  be  pitied  as  the  angry 
and  humiliated  woman  alone  in  her  room,  strug- 
gling with  her  passion  and  her  sense  of  shame,  and 
trying  to  appear  as  usual  before  the  excited  boy, 
who  was  by  no  means  ready  to  leave  the  parlors 
and  come  back  to  the  quiet  of  this  upper  world. 

"Why  could  I  not  have  staid,  mamma?  Papa 
liked  to  have  me  there,  and  they  all  did,  I  think. 
Seraph  kissed  me,  and  said  it  was  nice  to  have  a 
little  boy  to  put  her  arm  around.  And  I  was  good  ; 
I  didn't  talk  at  all,  only  when  somebody  asked  me 
something.  Mamma,  I  wish  I  could  go  back  just 
for  a  little  while.  It  is  lonesome  up  here,  and  I 
wanted  to  hear  them  sing.  Seraph  was  just  going 
to  sing  when  you  came  in." 

Poor  mother  !  If  this  baby  could  only  have  given 
her  kisses  just  then  instead  of  coaxing  to  go  away 
from  her,  it  would  have  helped.  It  was  an  after- 
noon to  remember.  Poor  Ruth  was  destined  to 
realize  fully  that  one  may  shut  the  doors  with 
emphasis  against  tangible  guests,  and  yet  receive 
a  whole  troop  of  miscreants  into  one's  heart  who 
make  havoc  with  holy  time.  As  the  storm  of  pas- 
sion subsided,  she  had  that  hardest  of  all  feelings 
to    contend    with  —  self-reproach.     Reason    being 


88  THE    UNEXPECTED. 

allowed  once  more  to  take  her  seat,  accused  this 
Christian  woman  of  having  yielded,  not  to  con- 
science, but  to  rage.  Possessed  with  this  control- 
ling influence  she  had  offered  to  her  husband's 
guest  what  he  would  consider  an  insult  ;  she  had 
not  only  given  him  an  utterly  false  idea  of  religion 
and  its  power  over  the  human  heart,  but  she  had 
offended  her  husband,  and  justly.  Perhaps  this 
was  really  the  worst  sting  in  Ruth's  sore  heart ; 
that  her  husband  would  be  justified  in  utterly  con- 
demning her  action  also.  And  herein  lay  the 
real  point  of  the  sting,  for  at  heart  this  woman 
was  loyal.  She  knew  the  unbelieving  husband 
would  attribute  the  action  to  her  religion,  and  per- 
sist in  doing  so,  when  she  realized  only  too  well 
that  it  was  the  outburst  of  a  moment's  ungovern- 
able indignation. 


SLIPPERY    GROUND.  89 


CHAPTER     VIII. 


SLIPPERY    GROUND. 


IN  point  of  fact,  that  was  just  what  Judge  Burn- 
ham  did.  The  moment  he  had  closed  the 
door  after  his  wife,  he  went  straight  to  Dr.  Whately 
and  held  out  his  hand  with  a  winning  smile,  and 
said,  in  tones  distinct  enough  to  be  heard  through- 
out the  room  :  "  My  friend,  I  hope  you  will  allow 
me  to  apologize  for  what  must  appear  unaccount- 
able treatment.  The  fact  is,  my  dear  fellow,  when 
religious  fanaticism  gets  hold  of  a  woman  she  is 
really  powerless  before  it,  and  I  verily  believe  is 
not  accountable  for  her  acts.  I  am  the  one  to 
blame  ;  since  I  understand  how  completely  this 
strange  feeling  sways  my  wife  I  should  not  have 
delivered  your  message  to-day.  I  beg  you  will 
pardon  her,  and  understand  that  no  discourtesy 
was  intended  ;  it  would  have  been  the  same  if  you 
had  been  a  foreign  ambassador." 

It  was  the  best  he  could  do  for  his  wife's  repu- 
tation. He  knew  this,  and  he  did  it  well  ;  and 
Dr.  Whately,  being  a  gentleman  in  society,  at  least 
accepted  the  apology  with  what  grace  he  could 
muster,  and  outward  calm  was  restored. 


90  SLIPPERY    GROUND. 

But  there  were  outgrowths  from  the  storm,  as 
there  always  are  when  passion  holds  sway  for  ever 
so  short  a  time  over  the  human  heart.  It  had  been 
said  publicly,  as  Ruth  had  feared  it  would  be,  that 
religion  must  bear  the  blame  for  this  unladylike 
action,  and  people  talked,  as  people  will.  Those 
least  acquainted  said  :  "  What  a  pity  it  was  that 
so  fine  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Burnham  should  be  so 
completely  under  the  control  of  fanatical  ideas ; 
they  should  think  Judge  Burnham  would  almost 
fear  for  her  reason  !  "  Others  of  them,  less  chari- 
table, said  it  was  all  very  well  for  the  Judge  to 
smooth  over  this  little  domestic  hurricane,  and  he 
did  it  gracefully,  but  they  believed,  if  the  truth 
were  told,  that  the  poor  fellow  was  used  to  them  ; 
and  at  any  rate,  if  that  was  the  style,  when  it  came 
their  turn  to  marry,  they  hoped  they  might  be 
delivered  from  a  religious  termagant,  for,  in  their 
opinion,  they  were  the  worst  kind. 

The  young  ladies  talked  the  matter  over  with 
their  father,  and  said  "  Poor  papa,"  and  kissed 
him  ;  and  said  they  were  "  so  sorry  "  for  him,  and 
that  he  managed  it  all  beautifully  ;  that  they  felt 
at  first  as  though  they  should  sink  through  the 
floor,  or,  at  least,  wished  that  they  could,  but  he 
was  so  gentle  and  so  courteous,  and  they  were  so 
proud  of  him  that  they  really  almost  forgot  to  be 
frightened  and  ashamed,  because  of  their  pride. 
And  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  martyr  who  had  borne 
himself  very  well  indeed  under  persecution. 


SLIPPERY    GROUND.  gi 

Still,  all  this  did  not  serve  to  make  his  indigna- 
tion against  his  wife  one  whit  less  fierce.  Nor  did 
it  serve  to  help  her,  when,  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
eves  that  were  red  with  weeping,  she  turned  to 
him  frankly  the  first  moment  that  they  were  alone, 
and  said,  "  Judge  Burnham,  I  owe  you  an  apology 
for  this  afternoon's  experience  ;  I  beg  you  will  for- 
give me ;  I  ought  not  to  have  done  what  I  did." 

Judge  Burnham  was  engaged  in  removing  his 
dress  coat,  and  putting  himself  into  his  dressing- 
gown  ;  he  had  not  seen  his  wife  since  the  after- 
noon. She  had  sent  a  message  by  Kate,  to  the 
effect  that  she  would  like  to  be  excused  from  din- 
ner, as  she  had  a  severe  headache  ;  and  the  Judge 
had  bowed,  in  reply,  and  had  not  gone  at  once  to  see 
what  he  could  do  for  the  headache,  as  his  courtesy 
had  always  heretofore  led  him  to  do.  Also,  he 
had  gone  with  his  daughters  and  some  of  their 
friends  to  the  city  for  the  evening,  merely  going 
through  the  form  of  sending  Kate  to  ask  if  there 
was  anything  he  could  do  for  Mrs.  Burnham's  com- 
fort before  departing.  So  now,  although  it  was 
nearly  eleven  o'clock,  Ruth  was  waiting  up  for 
him,  and  had  met  him  with  the  sentence  I  have 
given  you.  He  waited  to  adjust  the  collar  of  the 
handsome  dressing-gown  to  his  mind  before  he 
answered,  speaking  slowly,  coldly,  "I  should  think 
there  could  not  be  two  opinions  about  that." 

"No,"  said  Ruth,  controlling  an  almost  irresist- 
ible impulse  to  burst  into  tears  ;   "  I   should    not 


92  SLIPPERY    GROUND. 

expect  any  one  to  think  it  right,  and  I  am  very 
sorry  that  I  annoyed  you." 

"  As  to  that,"  said  the  Judge,  putting  his  feet 
into  some  bright  slippers  that  were  waiting  for 
them,  "I  must  bear  my  own  annoyances  as  best  I 
can  ;  but  I  regret  that  a  friend  of  mine  should  be 
rudely  treated  in  my  own  house,  at  the  hands  of 
my  wife.  It  was  not,  of  course,  what  could  have 
been  possibly  foreseen." 

Wasn't  it  a  graceful  way  of  telling  her  that  no 
one  could  have  foreseen  that  she  would  lay  aside 
her  ladyhood  and  descend  to  rudeness  ? 

Silence  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the  gentle- 
man made  what  he  intended  to  be  a  gracious  state* 
ment :  "  However,  I  made  what  apologies  I  could 
for  you,  and  am  glad  indeed  that  the  spell,  what- 
ever it  was,  is  over,  and  you  are  returned  to  rea- 
sonable ground  once  more." 

Then  was  poor  Ruth  dismayed.  Had  her  at- 
tempt at  undoing  the  mischief  of  the  day  been 
construed  into  a  concession  of  principle  for  the 
future  ?  She  must  explain,  at  the  risk  of  being 
misunderstood. 

"Judge  Burnham,  I  am  afraid  I  have  not  made 
my  meaning  quite  clear.  I  regret  exceedingly  the 
manner  of  my  explanation  to-day,  but  not  the  exT 
planation.  That  is,  it  will  be  necessary  for  Dr. 
Whately,  or  any  other  person  who  wishes  to  call 
on  me,  to  understand  that  I  do  not  receive  on  the 
Sabbath  ;  but  I  know  that  I  could  and  should  have 


SLIPPERY    GROUND.  93 

made  it  apparent  in  some  other  way,  and  in  a  dif- 
ferent spirit." 

"  Mrs.  Burnham,  suppose  we  dismiss  the  subject, 
and  retire.  We  are  not  likely  to  agree,  however 
long  we  may  discuss  it,  and  for  myself,  I  confess 
that  I  am  weary  of  the  whole  thing." 

And  this  was  the  outcome  of  her  attempt  at 
reconciliation. 

A  polite  gentleman's  displeasure  can  be  mani- 
fested in  unmistakable  ways,  even  toward  his  wife. 
The  very  extreme  punctiliousness  with  which  her 
husband  attended  to  the  minutest  detail  of  what- 
ever pertained  to  her,  marked  his  cold  dignity. 
There  were  none  of  the  little  carelessnesses 
which  are  sometimes  permitted,  even  enjoyed, 
where  there  is  perfect  familiarity  and  perfect 
confidence. 

Still,  as  the  days  passed,  the  episode  was  not 
without  its  fruits,  which  were  apparently  healthful. 
The  lady  of  the  house  struggled  to  show  that  she 
confessed  herself,  in  a  sense,  in  the  wrong,  and 
was  willing  to  do  all  she  could  in  the  way  of  con- 
cession. She  came  to  the  parlor  now  each  evening 
of  her  own  will,  not  waiting  to  be  summoned  there 
by  callers  who  inquired  for  her.  This  was  a  com- 
fort, even  to  the  young  ladies ;  for  there  were 
always  among  the  guests  those  whom  they  con- 
sidered it  a  bore  to  entertain  ;  and  to  have  mamma 
in  the  front  parlor  to  do  the  honors,  leaving  them 
free  to  saunter  into  the  back  parlor  or  the  music 


94  SLIPPERY    GROUND. 

room  with  favorite  ones,  was  as  it  should  be,  in 
their  estimation. 

Judge  Burnham  viewed  the  change  with  satisfied 
eyes,  and  was  by  no  means  unmindful  when  his 
wife  made  her  entrance,  in  a  dark  blue  dress,  in- 
stead of  the  black  which  she  had  so  long  worn. 
He  complimented  her  on  her  appearance  —  took 
a  rose  from  the  vase  and  pushed  it  through  the 
meshes  of  soft  lace  which  she  wore.     During  the 
evening  he  watched  her  with  satisfied  eyes  as  she 
entertained    his    friends ;    and,    not    having    any 
marked  interest  in  Dr.  Whately,  confessed  to  him- 
self that  he  didn't  know  but  he  "owed  the  fellow 
a  vote  of  thanks,  if  this  was  to  be  the  result  of 
his  impudence."     For  in  his   secret  heart  Judge 
Burnham  thought  that  it  was  bordering  on  impu- 
dence for  a  comparative  stranger  to  send  a  special 
request  to  his  wife  to  receive  him  socially  on  Sun- 
day afternoon  out    there   in   the   country,   where 
Sunday   calling  was  the  exception,   and  not   the 
rule. 

The  next  thing  was  a  dinner  party  ;  not  a  gen- 
eral and  massive  affair,  but  a  little  gathering  of 
Judge  Burnham's  special  friends,  whom  he  de- 
lighted to  honor;  such  a  gathering  as  had  not 
been  in  the  house  since  Ruth's  father  went  away. 
And  Judge  Burnham,  watching  his  wife,  who  ex- 
erted all  her  powers  of  entertainment,  and  over- 
hearing one  of  the  judges  of  the  Supreme  Court 
pronounce  her  "  an   unusually  brilliant  woman,  " 


SLIPPERY    GROUND.  95 

assured  himself  that  he  could  endure  the  momen- 
tary embarrassment  of  that  Sunday  afternoon  pro- 
ceeding very  well  indeed,  and  was  heartily  glad 
that  it  had  occurred  ;  that  probably  Ruth  needed 
something  of  the  sort  to  bring  her  to  her  senses. 
She  was  certainly  a  queen  among  women.  Now 
that  the  ice  was  fairly  broken,  society  should  see 
what  a  jewel  he  had  in  his  keeping. 

So,  altogether,  it  was  a  much-mollified  and  very 
well-contented  husband  who  lounged  among  the 
cushions  in  the  library,  after  the  fatigues  of  the 
successful  evening  were  over,  and  watched  his 
wife  while  she  unfastened  and  placed  in  water  the 
flowers  she  had  worn,  and  which  he  had  himself 
selected  and  arranged  for  her. 

"  They  were  very  becoming,  "  he  said  ;  "  I  had 
no  idea  that  simple  flowers  would  fit  your  style  so 
well;  but  there  was  a  charming  contrast  which 
just  suited  me.  Your  style  is  rather  regal,  you 
know,  and  I  have  always  thought  of  diamonds  in 
connection  with  it.  Ruth,  you  were  quite  like 
your  old  self  to-night.  The  self  I  used  to  admire 
before  I  appropriated  it ;  only  more  matronly,  of 
course,  as  became  your  years,  and  more  beautiful, 
really.  I  think  you  ought  to  be  grateful,  my  dear. 
Few  women  of  your  age  retain  their  youthful 
beauty  as  you  have  done." 

Ruth  laughed  in  a  pleased  way.  She  cared  ex- 
tremely little  for  youthful  beauty,  but  she  did  care 
for  her  husband's  admiration  ;  and  it  had  been  so 


g6  SLIPPERY    GROUND. 

long  since  he  had  expressed  any  that  she  felt  her 
cheeks  flush  under  the  spell  of  his  words.  She 
was  glad  over  having  pleased  him.  She  told  her- 
self that  she  ought  to  have  done  these  things 
before  ;  that  she  had  been  selfish  and  hateful  ; 
that  it  was  perfectly  natural  for  a  man  to  desire  to 
receive  his  friends  in  his  own  house,  and  that  if 
she  had  realized  how  much  he  desired  it,  she 
would  certainly  not  have  waited  so  long. 

She  put  herself  into  a  white  wrapper  that  was 
almost  more  becoming  than  her  dinner  dress,  and 
came  and  sat  beside  him.  And  he  reached  for 
the  tassels  of  her  wrapper  and  toyed  with  them, 
tossing  them  back  and  forth  on  her  hand  ;  and 
finally,  possessing  himself  of  the  hand,  bent  the 
shapely  fingers  back  and  forth  at  his  will,  while  he 
chatted  with  her  about  a  dozen  careless  nothings, 
as  they  had  not  chatted  together  actually  for  years  ; 
and  Ruth's  eyes  were  bright  and  her  heart  was 
glad.  She  began  to  see  her  way  out  of  the  mazes 
of  discomfort  which  had  surrounded  her.  She  was 
somewhat  astonished  that  the  door  of  comfort 
seemed  opening  to  her  by  way  of  the  society  which 
she  had  so  much  dreaded.  But  why  not,  after  all  ? 
She  had  enjoyed  the  gathering  herself;  she  knew 
how  to  entertain  people,  and  she  knew  how  to 
manage  her  domestic  concerns,  so  that  that  portion 
of  the  entertainment  could  always  be  a  success. 
What  had  she  been  thinking  about,  all  these 
months,  not  to  take  matters  into  her  own  hands 


SLIPPERY    GROUND.  97 

and  bring  to  their  house,  with  her  invitations,  such 
people  as  she  would  enjoy  meeting?  Scarcely  a 
name  on  the  list  which  her  husband  had  given  her, 
but  it  was  an  honor  to  entertain. 

Suddenly,  into  the  midst  of  her  complacent 
musings,  came  her  husband's  voice,  — 

"  By  the  way,  Ruth,  have  the  girls  spoken  to 
you  about  having  a  social  gathering  here,  chiefly 
of  young  people  ?  " 

"Well,  they  will,"  in  response  to  Ruth's  negative 
reply  ;  "  they  have  had  it  in  mind  for  some  time, 
and  have  been  quite  patient,  I  must  say,  for  girls  ; 
I  told  them  that  of  course  while  the  lady  of  the 
house  was  in  mourning,  anything  very  general  in 
the  way  of  company  would  be  in  bad  taste  ;  but 
that  as  soon  as  we  could  comfortably  bring  it  to 
pass,  they  should  be  gratified.  We  must  do  some- 
thing especially  attractive,  I  suppose,  in  return  for 
their  long  waiting.  I  believe  I  will  have  Tarrant's 
band  come  out  ;  that  would  be  unique,  and  save 
an  immense  amount  of  trouble.  What  is  your 
judgment  about  the  floors?  Would  you  rather- 
have  the  carpets  taken  up,  or  simply  covered 
for  the  occasion  ?  If  you  are  proposing  to  make 
any  changes  as  to  carpets  in  the  spring,  perhaps 
they  might  as  well  be  taken  up  now  as  at  any 
time." 

To  all  of  which  Ruth  listened  with  great  sinking 
of  heart ;  she  was  evidently  supposed  to  be  mak- 
ing ready  for  a  dancing  party,  and  on  a  somewhat 


98  SLIPPERY    GROUND. 

magnificent  scale.  She  waived  the  question  of 
carpet  and  launched  another. 

"Judge  Burnham,  don't  you  remember  that  I  do 
not  indorse  dancing  parties  ?  " 

Her  manner  was  timid,  almost  appealing  ;  as  one 
would  speak  who  dreaded  exceedingly  to  broach 
an  unpleasant  theme ;  but  the  master  of  the 
house  neither  frowned  nor  growled  ;  instead,  he 
laughed  :  — 

"  I  don't  remember  ;  there  were  so  many  things 
that  you  didn't  indorse,  you  know.  How  could  I 
be  expected  to  bear  them  all  in  mind?  However, 
the  girls  will  not  require  you  to  indorse  their  amuse- 
ment, I  fancy  ;  they  need  you  to  play  the  lady  hos- 
pitable to  their  guests.  You  need  not  be  bored 
for  more  than  an  hour  or  so,  you  know." 

Poor  puzzled  lady  of  the  house,  trying  to  walk 
two  opposite  ways  at  the  same  time  !  She  glanced 
at  the  handsome  man  who  was  resting  so  luxuri- 
ously among  his  cushions,  then  looked  down  at 
her  prisoned  hand,  and  sighed  ;  the  way  was  cer- 
tainly bewildering. 

She  tried  again. 

"But,  Judge  Burnham,  you  do  not  understand; 
how  can  I  receive  guests  to  my  house,  and  provide 
for  them  an  entertainment  of  which  I  do  not  in 
the  least  approve?  Would  there  not  be  something 
dishonorable  in  that  ?  Beside,  I  would  be  placing 
myself  in  a  false  light  before  the  world." 

"But,  my  dear,  you  are  not  expected  to  approve. 


SLIPPERY    GROUND.  99 

If  one  had  to  approve  of  all  the  silliness  which 
goes  on  under  one's  own  roof,  even  during  the 
giving  of  a  dinner  party,  it  would  be  a  tremendous 
strain  on  one's  common  sense.  You  cannot  man- 
age society,  my  queen,  however  much  you  may 
grace  it  ;  and  I  am  willing  to  own  that  few  women 
can  match  you  in  that." 

She  knew  he  had  answered  her  with  sophistry, 
and  with  flattery.  Never  mind,  she  would  put  the 
question  in  another  form  :  — 

"Judge  Burnham,  ought  one  to  offer  to  others 
that  which  one  believes  may  be  a  temptation  and 
a  snare  ?  If  I  think  there  is  actually  harm  in 
dancing,  ought  I  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
providing  it  as  an  amusement  ? " 

"  You  needn't,"  with  a  good-natured  laugh  ; 
"I  will  engage  the  band,  and  have  the  house  put 
in  proper  array,  and  you  may  retire  to  your  room 
with  the  first  strain  of  gay  music.  I  will  even 
engage  to  lock  you  in,  if  you  fear  the  temptation 
to  indulge  will  be  too  much  for  you." 

What  reply  could  she  make  to  this,  other  than  to 
look  steadily  at  him  with  sorrowful  eyes  ?  When 
his  laugh  was  over,  he  added,  still  good-naturedly, 
and  with  a  careless  yawn  :  — 

"  What  about  dancing,  my  dear ;  wherein  lies 
the  harm  ?  Did  you  ever  post  me  ?  If  so,  I  have 
fallen  from  grace.  I  can  not  recall  a  single  argu- 
ment for  your  side.  Do  you  want  to  refresh  your- 
self by  putting  me  through  a  course  ?  " 


IOO  SLIPPERY    GROUND. 

How  instantly  was  Mrs.  Burnham  carried  back 
to  the  clays  when  she  was  Ruth  Erskine ;  to 
Marion's  dingy  little  upper  room  in  the  boarding- 
house,  to  Eurie  Mitchell's  merry  words,  half  on  one 
side  of  the  question,  half  on  the  other  ;  to  Flossy 
Shipley's  sweet  young  face.  How  earnestly,  Bibles 
in  hand,  had  they  four  discussed  this  very  ques- 
tion years  ago  ?  How  easily,  in  the  light  of  Flossy 
Shipley's  Bible  verses,  they  had  settled  it !  She 
could  seem  to  hear  Marion's  voice  again  saying : 
"Girls,  we  have  spent  our  strength  vainly.  It  is 
our  privilege  to  get  up  higher ;  to  look  at  all  these 
things  from  the  mount  whereon  God  will  let  us 
stand,  if  we  want  to  climb."  And  they  had  climbed, 
those  girls  ;  they  were  standing,  at  least  so  far  as 
these  trying  little  beginnings  of  religious  experi- 
ence were  concerned,  away  above  them,  troubled 
by  them  no  more.  All  save  herself  ;  here  was 
she,  after  the  lapse  of  years,  sitting  beside  the  one 
with  whom  she  had  spent  the  most  of  them,  and 
he  had  gotten  no  farther  than  the  old  worn-out 
query,  "Wherein  lies  the  harm?"  The  solemn 
question  was,  Did  this  tell  something  of  her  own 
spiritual  state  ? 


THE    OLD    QUESTION.  10 1 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE    OLD    QUESTION. 

SHE  looked  at  him  curiously,  half  pitifully.  How 
should  she  answer  the  question  in  a  line  with 
his  moral  development  ?  Her  look  seemed  to 
amuse  and  interest  him. 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  ?  Do  you  feel  in  your  soul 
that  I  haven't  enough  mental  calibre  to  compre- 
hend the  argument?  I'll  promise  to  give  the  full 
powers  of  my  mind  to  it  if  you  will  try  me." 

"Judge  Burnham,  do  you  want  your  daughters 
to  be  on  such  familiar  terms  with  the  gentlemen 
whom  they  meet  in  society,  as  the  dance  necessi- 
tates ?  Is  your  knowledge  of  human  nature  such 
as  to  make  this  desirable,  or  even  wise  ?  " 

He  frowned  slightly,  and  his  voice  was  graver 
than  it  had  been. 

"  That  sounds  badly,  Ruth  ;  it  sounds  as  though 
you  might  be  unpleasantly  familiar  with  a  human 
nature  that  is  below  you.  You  must  have  learned 
that  sort  of  talk  from  people  who  think  they  must 
always  drag  the  slums  into  argument." 

"  I  am  not  talking  about  the  class  of  people  who 


102  THE    OLD    QUESTION. 

are  recognized  in  society  as  '  the  slums.'  1  mean 
the  Tracys,  the  Markams,  and  Mr.  Peterson.  Do 
you  want  your  daughters  to  dance  with  them  ?  " 

He  had  apparently  recovered  his  good  humor. 

"  Oh  !  as  to  that,  there  are  degrees,  even  in  good 
society  ;  I  shall  want  the  girls  to  exercise  common 
sense,  of  course,  or,  failing  in  that,  I  will  exercise 
it  for  them.  I  do  not  advocate  indiscriminate 
dancing  ;  if  that  is  what  you  are  after,  you  are 
entirely  welcome  to  the  admission." 

"Yet  the  girls  dance  with  these  persons  ;  I  have 
heard  them  mention  their  names  in  such  a  connec- 
tion. The  sole  point  before  us  just  now  is  whether 
we  desire  to  stamp  with  our  approval  amusements 
which  are  liable  to  such  dangers  as  these,  and 
which  may  lead  astray  young  girls  who  do  not 
understand  enough  about  the  wicked  world  to  see 
any  danger  ahead." 

"  Mrs.  Burnham,  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you 
that  possibly  our  daughters  may  have  been  led 
into  dangers  because  they  were  left,  in  a  large 
degree,  to  face  this  society  which  it  seems  is  such 
an  ogre,  quite  without  the  presence  and  guarding 
counsel  of  their  parents  ?  I  have  a  vivid  recollec- 
tion of  a  time  when  invitations  were  accepted  by 
them,  and  declined  by  you,  by  the  wholesale  ; 
while  I,  being  a  loyal  and  well-brought-up  husband, 
of  course,  remained  with  my  wife,  and  left  my  girls 
to  dance  with  whom  they  would.  What  about  that 
responsibility  ? " 


THE    OLD    QUESTION.  IO3 

Her  cheeks  were  growing  unbecomingly  red,  but 
she  answered  steadily  :  — 

"  You  could  not  expect  me  to  do  what  my  con- 
science disapproved,  even  though  you  allowed  the 
girls  to  go  where  I  could  not  accompany  them. 
You  knew  when  you  married  me,  Judge  Burnham, 
that  I  professed  to  be  guided  by  my  conscience. 
Did  I  do  wrong,  do  you  think,  in  following  its 
dictates  ?  " 

"  That  depends  ;  a  fellow  in  court  the  other  day 
argued  that  his  conscience  would  not  let  him  see 
his  wife  and  children  go  hungry ;  so  he  stole  a 
watch  in  order  to  feed  them.  This  question  of 
conscience  is  very  obscure,  and  miserably  mis- 
understood. If  you  were  a  lawyer,  you  would 
know  that  the  conscience  is  perverted  every  day 
to  meet  the  demands  of  some  crank." 

Her  old  friends  again,  how  fully  they  had  dis- 
cussed the  responsibilities  of  conscience,  and  the 
necessity  for  educating  it.  Did  her  husband  sup- 
pose that  she  had  not  studied  and  prayed  over 
these  matters  ?  She  was  silent,  because  she  did 
not  know  how  to  reply  to  his  pretense  at  arguing. 
His  words  seemed  beneath  her  notice.  After  a 
moment's  silence,  he  commenced  again. 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  how  you  came  to  be 
such  a  slave  to  fanaticism,  Ruth  ;  it  does  not  seem 
like  you.  Your  father  had  a  touch  of  it,  to  be  sure, 
but  I  think  he  must  have  caught  it  from  you,  since 
you  go  so  fur  beyond  him.      It  must  be  an  outcrop 


104  THE    OLD    QUESTION. 

from  some  ancient  Puritan  ;  really,  my  clear,  you 
ought  to  study  these  questions  ;  such  narrowness 
is  beneath  you.  Take,  for  example,  that  statement 
which  you  are  so  fond  of  making  —  about  leading 
others  astray.  Can't  you  really  see  that  if  it 
proves  anything,  it  proves  too  much  ?  How  many 
people  do  you  suppose  injure  themselves  everyday 
of  their  lives  by  gormandizing  ?  Yet  you  would 
not,  because  of  that,  conclude  that  it  was  your 
Christian  duty  to  give  up  the  use  of  food." 

Oh,  astute  judge  !  To  suppose  that  such  baby- 
ish sophistry  as  that  could  pass  with  your  keen- 
brained  wife  for  reasoning  !  He  waited  for  her 
reply  with  an  air  that  said  :  "  Now,  my  fair  fanatic, 
haven't  I  put  you  in  a  corner  ?  "  But  Ruth  was 
in  no  haste  to  respond  ;  busy  memories  had  hold 
of  her  to-night ;  she  had  gone  back  again  into  that 
upper  room.  She  could  see  Flossy's  grave,  sweet 
face,  she  could  hear  Marion  reading  from  her  little 
old  Bible.  Were  the  dear  girls  with  her  in  spirit 
to-night  trying  to  help  her,  that  they  appeared  to 
her  inner  consciousness  so  constantly  ?  " 

"  I  should  think,"  she  said  at  last,  "  that  the 
answer  to  your  question  would  depend  almost 
entirely  on  the  importance  of  food  to  our  bodies. 
If  the  habit  of  taking  food  is  one  that  we  can  lay 
aside  at  will,  and  still  hold  our  place  in  the  world 
and  do  our  work,  ought  we  not  to  carefully  con- 
sider and  decide  whether  we  should  in  this  thing 
set  an  example  which  would  lead  to  the  injury  of 


THE    OLD    QUESTION.  105 

others  ?  Will  you  let  me  quote  a  few  words  to  you 
from  an  old  book  on  which  I  feed  my  conscience  ?  " 

And  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  quoted  the 
well-remembered  words,  not  as  Marion  had  done, 
but  making  her  own  substitution  : 

"  '  But  dancing  commends  us  not  to  God  ;  for 
neither  if  we  dance  are  we  the  better,  neither  if  we 
dance  not  are  we  the  worse.  But  take  heed,  lest 
by  any  means  this  liberty  of  yours  become  a 
stumbling-block  to  them  that  are  weak  ;  for  if  any 
man  see  thee  which  hast  knowledge,  join  the  dance, 
shall  not  the  conscience  of  him  which  is  weak  be 
emboldened  to  dance  also  ?  And  through  thy 
knowledge  shall  the  weak  brother  perish,  for  whom 
Christ  died  ?  But  when  ye  sin  so  against  the 
brethren,  and  wound  their  weak  conscience,  ye 
sin  against  Christ.  Wherefore,  if  dancing  make 
my  brother  to  offend,  I  will  dance  no  more  while 
the  world  standeth.'  " 

Judge  Burnham  turned  himself  entirely  on  his 
cushions,  and  gave  his  wife  the  benefit  of  a  pro- 
longed stare  of  astonishment. 

"  Are  those  words  to  be  found  in  your  Bible 
exactly  as  you  have  quoted  them  ? " 

"  Exactly  as  I  have  quoted  them,  save  that,  of 
course,  I  substitute  dancing  for  Paul's  word  — 
meai  —  which  was  the  question  at  issue  when  he 
presented  the  argument." 

"Oh  !"  spoken  in  a  very  significant  tone,  "quite 
a  substitute,  I  should  say.     Of  course,  if  your  con- 


106  THE    OLD    QUESTION. 

science   allows  you   to  read  the    Bible  with  free 
substitutions,  you  can  make  it  prove  anything." 

"  But,  Judge  Burnham,  really,  have  I  changed 
the  force  of  the  argument  in  the  least,  if  you  admit 
what  you  and  I  know  to  be  the  case,  that  there 
have  been  people  even  this  winter,  in  this  city,  led 
astray  through  the  social  dance  ? " 

It  was  almost  impossible  for  her  to  keep  her 
lip  from  curling  just  a  little  in  indignation.  She 
could  seem  to  hear  Marion's  voice  again  as  she 
said,  — 

"  Now,  Eurie  Mitchell,  you  are  too  bright  to 
make  such  a  remark  as  that." 

Her  husband  was  also  "  too  bright  "  for  that. 

Judge  Burnham  yawned  and  turned  one  of  the 
pillows  and  said  :  — 

"  What  time  is  it,  my  dear  ?  Haven't  we  dis- 
cussed this  interesting  subject  long  enough  ?  You 
cannot  make  the  world  over  if  you  try  ever  so 
hard.  My  candid  advice  to  you  is  not  to  try. 
You  will  have  your  peculiar  views,  I  suppose,  to 
the  end  of  time.  Don't  let  us  quarrel  about  them. 
The  girls  haven't  a  drop  of  Puritan  blood  in  their 
veins.  I'm  afraid  they  will  dance  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter,  but  I  will  see  to  it  that  they  choose 
partners  of  perfectly  immaculate  character.  We- 
have  gone  a  long  way  astray  from  our  starting- 
point,  which  was,  whether  we  should  have  the 
carpets  removed  or  covered.  However,  you  can 
decide  that  at  your  leisure.     Oh  !  by  the  way,  if  I 


THE    OLD    QUESTION.  lOJ 

were  you  I  would  have  that  little  room  which  we 
have  been  using  as  a  sort  of  annex  to  the  music 
room,  cleared  and  fitted  up  with  card  tables. 
There  are  always  some  who  prefer  a  quiet  game  to 
any  other  method  of  passing  the  time,  and  that 
seems  to  me  the  most  convenient  place  for  tables. 
And  now,  my  dear,  don't  you  think  it  would  be 
well  for  us  to  close  this  day  ?  It  has  been  rather 
a  fatiguing  one  ;  I'm  afraid  I  shall  need  another 
dinner  if  we  talk  much  longer." 

He  smiled  pleasantly  on  her,  even  stooped  and 
kissed  her,  as  he  rose  up  to  light  the  gas  in  his 
dressing-room.  His  manner  was  certainly  very 
kind  —  kinder  than  it  had  been  for  months.  But 
there  was  a  painful  little  air  of  triumph  about  it, 
as  one  who  said  :  — 

"  We  have  begun  life  on  a  new  basis,  my  dear. 
It  is  true  you  insulted  a  friend  of  mine,  but  you 
thereby  got  your  eyes  opened,  and  have  discovered 
that  you  live  in  the  world  and  must  live  in  it ;  and 
you  have  taken  your  place  in  society  once  more, 
and  society  will  show  you  that  she  has  a  groove 
in  which  you  must  walk.  You  are  her  prisoner, 
whether  you  will  or  not." 

And  Ruth,  as  she  went  slowly,  wearily  over  to 
her  dressing-case,  and  began  to  draw  out  pins  and 
let  clown  her  hair,  sighed  heavily,  not  because  she 
was  subdued,  but  because  she  was  perplexed. 

"  I  am  not  a  prisoner,"  she  told  herself  firmly, 
"  nor  a  slave.     I  am  the   Lord's  free  woman.      I 


108  THE    OLD    QUESTION. 

am  responsible  only  to  Him,  and  I  will  not  bow  my 
neck  to  this  yoke  of  fashionable  life.  I  will  not 
appear  to  countenance  what  I  do  not  approve. 
But,  oh  !  I  see  discord  and  weariness  of  soul  before 
me,  and  I  do  not  know  which  way  to  turn  first. 
If  only"  — 

Just  here  she  stopped  ;  she  must  always  stop  at 
that  point,  even  in  her  thoughts.  What  good  to 
say  now,  "  If  only  my  husband  and  I  were  agreed 
as  to  these  matters  ?  "  But  there  did  float  through 
her  tired  brain  the  old,  solemn  question,  "  How 
shall  two  walk  together  except  they  be  agreed  ?  " 

Away  into  the  night  she  studied  the  problem, 
and  arose  the  next  morning  somewhat  lighter  of 
heart.  She  had  resolved  to  see  what  genius  and 
culture  could  do  toward  supplanting  the  usual 
amusements  of  the  day.  She  would  petition  her 
husband  to  let  her  give  the  young  ladies  a  sur- 
prise—  an  entertainment  that  she  would  promise 
should  be  altogether  unique,  and  more  brilliant 
than  anything  the  region  had  known.  She  would 
do  this,  with  the  understanding  that  every  detail 
should  be  left  entirely  in  her  hands,  and  should  be 
entirely  secret  until  the  eventful  evening  arrived. 
Thus  guarded,  she  would  see  whether  it  was  not 
possible  for  time  and  skill  and  money  to  evolve 
an  evening's  entertainment,  even  for  fashionable 
people,  which  should  have  no  objectionable  feat- 
ures. Much  engrossed  by  her  scheme  and  ways 
of   developing  it,  she  roused   from  a  half-dreamy 


THE    OLD    QUESTION.  IO9 

attention  to  the  usual  dinner-table  chatter,  to  alert- 
ness and  caution. 

"  Robert,"  the  host  had  ordered,  "  unpack  the 
case  which  came  out  with  me  this  afternoon,  and 
bring  a  bottle  of  it  to  the  table." 

"  It  is  a  very  choice  orange  wine,  my  dear,"  — 
this  to  his  wife,  as  Robert  departed  to  do  his 
bidding, —  "something  new  about  its  preparation. 
I  did  not  give  sufficient  attention  to  understand 
what,  but  Dr.  Westwood  was  enthusiastic  over  it. 
And  the  point  which  I  did  notice  was,  that  he 
thought  it  would  be  excellent  both  for  you  and  for 
Erskine.  It  seems  he  has  noticed  the  boy  lately, 
and  thinks  he  needs  toning  up.  And  he  says  you 
need  to  enter  on  a  regular  course  of  tonics.  He 
recommends  the  use  of  this  orange  wine  at  every 
meal,  and  a  little  of  it  as  often  as  you  feel  any 
thirst." 

"Erskine  is  not  sick  ! " 

The  mother's  voice  was  not  only  startled,  but 
almost  pleading  in  its  notes,  as  she  studied  the 
face  of  the  fair  boy  at  her  side. 

"  O,  no  !  not  sick,  but  pale  and  frail-looking. 
I  told  Dr.  Westwood  that  I  thought  he  was  too 
closely  housed  ;  however,  I  have  no  doubt  that  the 
wine  will  be  good  for  him.  You  shall  make  the 
first  test  of  its  quality,  Mrs.  Burnham." 

By  this  time  he  had  poured  a  glass  two  thirds 
full  of  the  liquid,  and  was  himself  holding  it  for- 
ward for  his  wife. 


110  THE    OLD    QUESTION. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  in  a 
perfectly  natural  tone,  "  I  never  use  stimulants  of 
any  sort,  you  remember  ;  I  feel  not  the  slightest 
need  for  them,"  and  she  made  no  movement  toward 
the  offered  glass. 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  must  allow  the  physician  to 
be  the  judge  of  that  last.  I  assure  you,  he  was 
quite  emphatic  in  his  statements  ;  so  much  so 
that  I  ordered  a  case  of  the  wine  before  going  to 
my  office  after  meeting  him." 

"  It  was  very  thoughtful,  certainly,  and  I  will 
be  grateful  for  the  intention ;  but  indeed,  I  must 
decline  to  drink  it.  If  I  am  really  in  need  of  medi- 
cine, a  point  which  I  by  no  means  yield,  even  on 
Dr.  Westwood's  testimony,  I  prefer  to  take  it  in 
the  privacy  of  my  own  room,  where  I  can  make  all 
the  wry  faces  I  wish,  over  offensive  doses  ;  not  to 
mix  it  with  my  food.  No,  thank  you,  "  for  he  was 
still  holding  forward  the  glass ;  "  I  must  really 
decline  it  ;  I  have  studied  into  the  merits  of 
orange  wine  somewhat,  and  am  not  an  admirer." 

Judge  Burnham  set  the  glass  down  at  last ;  not 
quite  gently,  and  his  face  was  slightly  flushed ; 
both  the  young  ladies  laughed  lightly,  and  Seraph 
said  :  — 

"  Why,  mamma,  where  did  you  study  medicine  ? 
You  have  one  accomplishment  which  I  did  not 
know  you  possessed.  How  convenient  it  will  be 
for  us  ;  we  shall  not  need  to  summon  a  physician 
from  the  city." 


THE    OLD    QUESTION.  Ill 

Mrs.  Burnham  made  no  reply  ;  indeed,  she  only 
half  heard  the  voluble  tongue.  She  was  watching 
Judge  Burnham  with  an  anxiety  which  he  might 
plainly  have  read,  had  he  chosen  to  look  at  her. 

He  had  filled  a  smaller  glass  about  two  thirds 
full  of  the  wine,  and  was  passing  it  to  his  son. 

"Here,  my  boy,"  he  said,  in  decisive  tones,  as 
though  he  were  issuing  a  command  instead  of 
offering  a  luxury,  "  drink  that." 

"  Erskine,  wait  !  "  His  mother's  voice,  as  deci- 
sive as  the  father's,  but  lower  and  more  controlled. 
Then  she  addressed  the  father  :  — 

"  Judge  Burnham,  may  I  beg  you  to  excuse 
Erskine  from  drinking  the  wine  ?  There  are 
special  reasons  why  I  would  like  to  talk  with  you 
about  it  before  he  takes  any." 

Judge  Burnham  was  very  angry  or  he  would  not 
have  allowed  himself  to  be  guilty  of  the  rudeness 
which  followed. 

"  After  he  has  obeyed  me,"  he  said,  in  haughty 
tones,  "  I  will  be  ready  to  talk  with  you.  Drink 
that,  my  son,  immediately." 

The  startled  boy  received  the  glass  in  his  hands, 
but  his  mother's  hand  was  placed  quietly  over  the 
top,  while  she  spoke  quickly, — 

"  Erskine,  papa  will  certainly  excuse  you  if  we 
explain  to  him  that  in  obeying  that  direction  you 
will  not  only  be  breaking  a  promise  made  to  mamma, 
but  to  God." 

It  was  his  son's  questioning,  half-frightened  gaze, 


112  THE    OLD    QUESTION. 

and  the  certainty  that  he  was  sitting  as  judge  over 
the  scene,  and  would  be  sure  to  agree  with  his 
mother,  which  was  finally  the  controlling  force  in 
Judge  Burnham's  mind. 

He  struggled  for  outward  composure,  and  pres- 
ently, with  a  forced  laugh,  said  : 

"  Oh  !  if  the  case  is  as  serious  as  that,  of  course 
nothing  further  can  be  said  at  present.  But  really, 
Mrs.  Burnham,  I  think  as  a  family  we  are  a  success 
in  getting  up  unexpected  scenes  out  of  very  small 
capital.  I  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  rousing  a 
moral  earthquake  when  I  went  a  mile  out  of  my 
way  this  morning  to  see  that  the  doctor's  prescrip- 
tion was  properly  attended  to.  I  think  it  would 
be  well  for  us  to  come  to  some  understanding  in 
private  about  the  management  of  our  son." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  publicity  of  the 
scene,  "  said  Ruth  ;  "  it  was  nothing  that  I  could 
have  foreseen." 

It  was  the  humiliation  of  this  Christian  woman 
that  there  were  times  when  silence  would  have 
been  golden,  in  which  she  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  sarcasm. 


COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING.  II3 


CHAPTER   X. 

COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING. 

/^VF  course  the  question  was  not  settled.  Mrs. 
^-^  Burnham  knew  this,  and  was  anxious  to 
bring  it  up  again,  that  there  might  at  least  be  a 
full  understanding  with  regard  to  Erskine.  She 
began  it  unwisely  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  be- 
fore her  excitement  had  had  time  to  cool.  How- 
ever, she  was  quiet  enough  at  first,  repeating  with 
a  little  more  care  and  courtesy  the  statement  that 
she  had  been  sorry  for  the  public  discussion,  and 
had  not  thought  to  tell  him  that  she  and  Erskine 
had  been  talking  of  these  things  but  a  few  days 
before,  and  that  they  had  together  taken  a  pledge 
never  to  touch  anything  that  could  intoxicate  —  a 
pledge  which  her  husband  interrupted  her  to  say 
he  thought  was  an  "  exceedingly  foolish  and  mis- 
chievous one.  Pledges  were  serious  things,  and 
should  not  be  mouthed  over  by  a  child,  ignorant 
of  what  he  was  about  ; "  and  then,  with  delicious 
disregard  of  logic,  added  that  he  should  have  sup- 
posed she  would  have  had  more  wisdom  than  to 
have  herself  set  up  a  barrier  in  the  child's  con- 
science in  regard  to  the  medicine  which  the  fam- 


114  COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING. 

ily  physician  had  prescribed.  Ruth  ignored  the 
logic  and  the  implied  compliment  to  herself,  and 
held  to  her  point. 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  pledge  him  against  the  use 
of  alcohol  for  extreme  illness.  Personally,  I  believe 
that  medical  skill  can,  if  it  choose,  supply  a  sub- 
stitute for  alcoholic  poison  even  in  cases  were  it 
used  to  be  considered  a  necessity.  That  was  what 
papa  thought,  you  remember,  and  I  know  that  we 
have  very  high  medical  authority  to  sustain  the 
belief  ;  but  I  am  not  prepared  to  set  up  my  judg- 
ment against  that  of  an  attending  physician  where 
I  know  there  is  extreme  danger.  I  do  not  know 
yet  what  I  should  do  under  such  circumstances.  I 
am  afraid  I  should  obey  the  doctor,  but  in  little 
every-day  aches  and  pains,  and  the  weaknesses 
common  to  childhood,  I  am  sure  there  is  no  ne- 
cessity whatever  for  resorting  to  alcohol,  and  that 
feature  of  the  subject  was  decidedly  included  in 
our  pledge." 

"  And  I  repeat  that  I  think  you  have  been  very 
foolish  in  playing  with  pledges  and  all  that  sort  of 
nonsense  ;  the  word  of  parents  should  be  the  high- 
est law  a  child  touches.  However,  you  made  a 
most  unnecessary  scene  in  this  case,  for  orange 
wine  is  free  from  the  ingredient  which  has  come 
under  the  ban  of  your  displeasure." 

His  wife  turned  fully  toward  him  then,  and  re- 
garded him  searchingly.  Was  this  man  ignorant, 
really,  or  did  he  suppose  that  she  was  ? 


COMING   TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING.  1 1 5 

"  Do  I  understand  you  that  there  was  no  alcohol 
in  the  preparation  of  the  orange  wine  which  was 
on  the  table  to-day  ?  " 

"  Well,  of  course  it  was  fermented,  else  it  would 
not  be  fit  to  drink  ;  but  the  proportion  of  alcohol 
was  so  slight  that  a  baby  might  have  indulged  in 
it  without  harm." 

It  seemed  unnecessary  to  make  any  reply  to 
this,  so  none  was  offered.  The  significant  silence 
seemed  to  vex  Judge  Burnham. 

"  Suppose  we  try  to  understand  each  other,"  he 
said,  speaking  more  haughtily  than  before.  "  Am  I 
to  conclude,  from  the  exhibition  we  have  had  to- 
day, that  whenever  you  choose  to  countermand  my 
orders  to  the  child,  you  consider  yourself  quite  at 
liberty  to  do  so  in  his  presence,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  presence  of  others  ?  If  you  have  any  such 
impression  as  this,"  he  added,  growing  more  angry 
as  he  proceeded,  "  it  is  quite  time  we  came  to  an 
understanding.  I  am  not  a  household  tyrant,  and 
have  never  obtruded  my  views  in  regard  to  the 
child  ;  indeed,  while  he  was  a  baby,  it  was  my 
policy  and  my  practice  to  leave  him  almost  entirely 
in  your  hands.  Perhaps  I  have  carried  this  policy 
too  far,  and  led  you  to  misunderstand  me.  But 
once  for  all,  let  me  say  that  I  expect  full  and 
implicit  and  prompt  obedience  from  him,  and  fail- 
ing to  receive  it,  shall  certainly  require  it.  I  ex- 
cused him  to-day,  because  the  nature  of  your 
interference  was  such  that  no  gentleman  could  do 


Il6  COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING. 

otherwise,  but  for  the  future,  you,  being  fairly- 
warned,  will  not,  I  hope,  force  me,  at  least  in 
public,  to  the  painful  necessity  of  pressing  my 
commands  contrary  to  your  expressed  will." 

If  he  was  angry  now,  and  he  had  grown  more  so 
with  each  spoken  word,  how  shall  his  wife's  state 
of  mind  be  described  ?  Her  blood  seemed  fairly 
to  boil  in  her  veins.  This  entire  harangue  was  so 
unlike  her  husband  —  was  so  uncalled  for.  Had  she 
not  striven  earnestly  and  successfully  to  instill  into 
Erskine's  mind  the  importance  of  unquestioning 
obedience  to  his  father  ?  Had  she  not  put  away 
her  fears  and  anxieties  many  a  time  with  stern 
hand,  in  order  to  carry  out  some  scheme  of  the 
father's,  over  which  the  mother's  heart  trembled  ? 
How  utterly  unfair  and  unkind  was  all  this  !  Why 
should  she  be  spoken  to  as  though  she  were  at  best 
but  a  faithful  nursemaid,  who  could  be  trusted 
with  the  care  of  the  child  while  he  was  a  baby,  but 
who  must  resign  her  control  as  he  grew  older  ? 
There  was  no  time  for  careful  thought,  for  school- 
ing herself  to  the  use  of  the  right  words ;  she 
spoke  hastily,  almost  fiercely. 

"  Judge  Burnham,  I  have  done  nothing  to  merit 
such  language  as  that.  I  have  always  taught 
Erskine  to  obey  you  quite  as  unquestioningly  as 
he  did  me.  You  know  this  to  be  the  case,  and 
also  that  I  appealed  to  you  to-day  to  excuse  him 
from  the  command,  giving  you  what  I  thought 
was  a  sufficient  reason.     Since  you  are  so  anxious 


COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING.  117 

that  there  should  be  an  understanding  between  us, 
I  will  try  to  speak  as  plainly  as  you  have.  I  do 
mean  that  my  boy  shall  be  kept  from  the  taint  or 
the  touch,  or  even  the  smell  of  alcohol,  if  deter- 
mination and  vigilance  on  my  part  can  accomplish 
it.  I  tell  you  solemnly  that,  much  as  my  life  is 
bound  up  in  his,  entirely  as  I  seem  to  be  depend- 
ent on  him  for  what  happiness  I  have,  I  would 
rather  stand  beside  his  open  grave,  and  see  him 
buried  in  his  childish  innocence,  than  that  he 
should  live  to  be  even  a  fashionable  drunkard. 
And  I  warn  you  that  I  will  not  tamely  submit  to 
any  tampering  with  him  in  this  direction  ;  to  any 
scheme  under  pretext  of  medicine,  or  tonic,  or 
whatever  name  Satan  has  planned  to  have  the 
mixture  called.  I  will  take  my  boy  and  run  away, 
before  I  will  endure  anything  of  the  kind." 

She  turned  from  him  the  moment  the  last  word 
was  spoken  and  left  the  room,  but  not  quickly 
enough  to  escape  his  reply,  — 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  this  is  the  most  astound- 
ing exhibition  of  Christian  fanaticism  that  I  have 
seen  yet." 

The  words  pierced  her  ;  not  because  of  their  in- 
tense sarcasm,  nor  because  of  the  emphasis  on  the 
last  word,  which  was  equal  to  saying  that  he  was 
now  prepared,  however,  for  anything  in  that  direc- 
tion which  could  be  imagined,  but  because  of  that 
one  word  Christian.  It  brought  her  suddenly  back 
to  the  recollection  that  as  she  lived  religion  be- 


Il8  COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING. 

fore  her  husband,  so  he  would  judge  of  its  power 
in  her  heart.  Oh  !  miserable  life  that  goaded  her 
by  the  very  force  of  her  conscience  into  daily  ex- 
hibitions that  were  a  disgrace  to  the  name  she 
wore ! 

Moreover,  when  she  was  quiet  enough  to  think 
about  it,  she  began  to  realize  how  very  difficult 
she  had  made  the  way  for  her  projected  entertain- 
ment, which  was  to  supersede  and  outshine  the 
fashionable  world.  Had  she  not  made  the  attempt 
well-nigh  impossible  ?  Yet  what  could  she  have 
done  ?  She  tried  to  assure  her  conscience  that 
she  had  no  business  with  results  ;  that  she  had 
but  stood  squarely  up  for  her  principles,  as  she 
was  in  honor  bound  to  do.  But  her  conscience 
was  altogether  too  well  educated  to  be  lulled  in 
this  manner  ;  it  insisted  on  assuring  her  that  it 
was  not  the  standing  up  for  principle  which  could 
be  criticised,  but  the  manner  of  doing  it. 

The  next  complication  came  the  next  morning. 
Mrs.  Stuart  Bacon  sent  up  her  card,  and  would  be 
glad  to  see  Mrs.  Burnham  for  a  few  minutes  on 
important  business.  Ruth  knew  her  but  slightly, 
and  being  in  no  mood  for  strangers,  was  tempted 
to  declare  herself  engaged.  But  that  phrase  "  im- 
portant business,"  conquered,  and  she  went  reluc- 
tantly to  the  parlor. 

Mrs.  Bacon  was  a  middle-aged  lady  with  an  ear- 
nest face  and  pleasant  voice.  Looking  at  her  from 
across  the  aisle  of  the  church,  Ruth  remembered 


COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING.  I  19 

that  she  had  dreamily  told  herself  that  sometime 
she  would  like  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
that  face.  Perhaps  this  was  her  opportunity.  Yet 
this  morning  she  did  not  think  she  wanted  to  be- 
come  acquainted  with  anybody.  It  almost  seemed 
to  her  that  if  she  could  go  quite  away  from  every- 
body she  had  ever  seen  before,  and  stay  a  long 
time,  she  would  be  glad. 

Mrs.  Bacon  expressed  her  thanks  at  being  re- 
ceived, though  the  hour  was  early  for  calls,  and 
said  she  would  not  abuse  the  kindness  by  unnec- 
essary detention,  but  would  proceed  at  once  to 
business.  In  the  first  place,  would  not  clear  Mrs. 
Burnham  join  their  organization  ?  Her  name  had 
been  on  their  list  for  several  weeks  as  one  whom 
they  meant  to  petition,  but  she  believed  the  oppor- 
tunity had  not  heretofore  occurred.  Still,  they 
confidently  looked  for  her  name  and  support. 

"  What  was  the  organization  ?  "  Ruth  questioned, 
struggling  with  the  apathy  she  felt,  and  trying 
hard  to  bring  herself  into  line  with  women  who 
were  at  work  in  the  world. 

"  Why,  the  W.  C.  T.  U.,  you  know,"  spoken 
confidently,  as  though  she  would  know  the  mean- 
ing of  the  magic  letters  in  an  instant.  "  Your  old 
pnstor,  Dr.  Dennis,  assured  us  that  he  believed  we 
should  find  in  you  a  most  efficient  helper." 

But  Ruth  had  been  living  out  of  the  world. 
She  could  not  remember  what  the  letters  meant. 
Dreamily,  she  recalled  her  Chautauqua  experiences, 


120  COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING. 

where  the  air  was  full  of  initials,  and  tried  to  fit 
some  of  their  meanings  to  the  letters  that  flowed 
so  glibly  from  Mrs.  Bacon's  tongue,  but  they 
would  not  fit.  The  caller  must  have  observed  her 
blank  look,  for  she  hastened  to  the  rescue. 

"The  Woman's  Christian  Temperance  Union, 
you  know.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  speaking  in  ab- 
breviations ;  we  women  do  it  so  much  in  our  work 
that  we  forget  it  is  not  quite  the  way  to  speak  to 
outsiders.  Still,  I  don't  regard  you  as  an  outsider; 
I  know  you  are  one  of  us  ;  an  intelligent  Christian 
mother,  in  these  days,  is  to  be  claimed  as  a  matter 
of  course." 

"The  Woman's  Christian  Temperance  Union." 
Ruth  repeated  the  words  aloud,  slowly,  as  if  fasci- 
nated by  them,  her  face  aglow  with  interest.  It 
sounded  like  fellowship,  and  oneness  of  thought 
and  feeling. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Bacon  said  heartily,  feeling  the 
sympathy  in  her  hostess's  voice  ;  "  I  knew  you 
would  be  interested.  We  have  quite  a  flourishing 
branch  here,  and  have  accomplished  some  very 
desirable  results;"  and  she  launched  forth  into  an 
eager  account  of  their  late  experiences. 

Ruth,  listening,  felt  her  enthusiasm  die  slowly, 
and  her  heart  grew  cold  ;  it  was  of  no  use  to  think 
of  joining  these  women  in  their  work.  She  had 
never  heard  Judge  Burnham  mention  the  name  of 
the  organization,  yet  she  was  as  sure  as  though  he 
had  talked  for  hours  about  it,  that  he  would  regard 


COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING.  121 

their  methods  of  work,  and  even  their  work  itself, 
in  some  of  its  branches  as  unladylike  and  uncalled 
for.  He  had  a  very  pronounced  horror  of  women 
whom  he  regarded  as  having  stepped  out  of  their 
sphere.  It  would  be  foolish  to  widen  the  breach 
which  was  already  between  them,  by  identifying 
herself  with  anything  of  this  sort,  but  she  would 
like  to  do  it.  She  knew,  of  course,  a  great  deal 
about  the  workings  of  the  organization,  and  had 
been  more  or  less  interested  in  its  movements  in 
the  years  gone  by.  As  soon  as  she  had  roused 
from  her  dazed  condition  she  knew  what  the  ini- 
tials meant,  very  well.  Some  of  the  doings  of  the 
society  she  had  regarded  with  disapproval,  she  re- 
membered, but  as  she  swiftly  looked  back  on 
them  now,  she  said  perhaps  the  women  were  justi- 
fied in  all  that  they  did.  No  doubt  many  of  them 
were  mothers. 

None  of  this,  however,  appeared  in  her  words. 
When  Mrs.  Bacon  reached  a  period,  having  closed 
with  a  renewal  of  her  invitation,  Ruth's  reply  was 
a  brief,  almost  cold  negative.  She  could  not  join 
the  organization.  She  was  in  sympathy  with  them, 
of  course,  and  respected  their  work ;  every  Chris- 
tian woman  must  do  that ;  but  there  were  excellent 
reasons  why  she  could  not  enroll  herself  as  one  of 
them. 

Mrs.  Bacon  was  disappointed.  She  had  evi- 
dently heard,  either  through  Dr.  Dennis  or  from 
some   other  source,  that  about   Ruth  which  had 


122  COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING. 

made  her  confident  of  success.  However,  the  re- 
fusal had  been  given  in  such  a  way  as  made  it 
almost  impossible  for  a  lady  to  urge  further. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  dismayed 
silence,  "  I  am  sorry.  Perhaps  you  will  see  it  in 
a  different  light  at  some  other  time.  Now,  let  me 
come  at  once  to  the  special  business  whose  need 
for  haste  precipitated,  perhaps  unwisely,  the  invi- 
tation I  have  just  given  you.  I  feel  very  sure,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Burnham,  that  you  will  not  put  me  off 
with  a  negative  here.  You  know,  of  course,  how  ear- 
nestly we  have  struggled  to  keep  the  sale  of  liquor 
out  of  this  corner  of  the  world  ;  and  because  we 
do  not  as  yet  belong  to  the  city,  and  because  it  is 
a  factory  region,  we  have  succeeded ;  even  the 
enemies  of  total  abstinence  do  not  think  it  wise  to 
have  liquor  freely  sold  where  their  workmen  can 
get  it,  you  know.  For  their  sons,  strange  to  say, 
they  have  not  so  much  regard  !  Well,  up  to  this 
time  our  young  men,  if  they  use  the  stuff,  must  go 
to  the  city  for  it.  It  is  true  enough,  that  with  our 
constant  trains  back  and  forth,  this  can  be  very 
readily  accomplished  ;  still,  it  is  a  sort  of  safe- 
guard to  those  who  have  not  yet  been  caught  in 
the  enemy's  toils.  But  now  a  new  danger  menaces 
us  ;  it  is  said  that  our  largest  hotel,  the  Shenan- 
doah, has  discovered  that  the  law  can  be  inter- 
preted in  such  a  manner  that  it  will  have  a  right 
to  offer  liquor  to  its  guests,  even  though  none  can 
be  sold  elsewhere  within  our  limits.     What  do  you 


COMING   TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING.  1 23 

suppose  we  mothers  think  of  that  ?  We  have  sons, 
you  know,  who  mingle  freely  with  the  guests  at 
the  Shenandoah,  and  are  frequently  entertained  by 
them.  Are  we  to  sit  quietly  by  and  see  that  poured 
before  their  eyes  daily  which  we  have  pledged  our 
lives  to  keep  from  them,  if  possible  ?  Do  you  be- 
lieve we  ought  to  do  it,  Mrs.  Burnham  ? " 

She  was  strongly  excited  ;  her  eyes  fairly  blazed 
with  the  intensity  of  her  feelings,  and  every  muscle 
of  her  face  spoke  for  her.  Ruth  remembered  that 
she  had  heard  this  woman's  son  mentioned  as  a 
young  man  who  was  unusually  gifted.  Was  he 
also  unusually  tempted  ?  She  made  haste  to  an- 
swer, her  heart  throbbing  in  sympathy  ;  suppose 
Erskine  were  nineteen. 

"  Assuredly  I  do  think  so,  my  dear  madam  ;  and 
if  there  is  anything  which  you  can  do,  I  should 
think  you  would  allow  no  obstacle  to  prevent  your 
doing  to  the  utmost." 

"  Thank  you.  I  knew  you  were  true  at  heart. 
Mrs.  Burnham,  if  there  is  anything  which  you  can 
do  for  us,  will  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  After  what  I  have  said,  you  can  hardly  doubt 
the  heartiness  of  my  reply  to  that  question  ;  the 
only  trouble  is,  I  realize  only  too  well  my  own  im- 
potence. I  have  no  influence  whatever  with  the 
managers  of  the  hotel  ;  I  have  not  even  a  speaking 
acquaintance  with  them  ;  and,  if  I  had,  it  would 
not  give  me  influence.  I  low  is  it  possible  that  I 
could  accomplish  anything  which  you,   who  have 


124  COMING   TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING. 

worked  in  these  lines  and  understand  the  methods 
so  well,  could  not  do  much  better  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  my  dear,  we  are  far  too  well  trained  in  our 
work  to  hope  anything  from  hotel  managers  as  a 
rule.  The  men  who  can  consider  such  a  propo- 
sition at  all,  are  not  of  the  class  that  can  be  urged 
through  their  moral  natures.  Liquor-dealing  hotel 
proprietors  have  no  consciences,  I  verily  believe. 
Nothing  less  impossible  than  a  '  thou  shalt  not  '  is 
going  to  effect  anything  in  that  direction.  Why, 
one  of  these  very  gentlemen  has  a  son  who  drinks 
to  excess  every  time  he  goes  to  the  city  ;  and  his 
father  wants  to  make  it  more  convenient  for  him, 
it  seems." 

"  Then  what  can  you  think  it  possible  for  me  to 
do  under  such  circumstances  ?  If  they  have  the 
law  on  their  side,  or  if  it  has  been  twisted  so  that 
it  can  appear  to  be  on  their  side — and  I  have  no 
doubt  of  that  last  ;  for  nothing  seems  to  be  easier 
than  to  secure  a  lawyer  who  is  skillful  in  misinter- 
preting law  to  suit  his  client  —  what  is  there  left  to 
do  ?  " 

"  Everything,  dear  Mrs.  Burnham.  I  am  so 
glad  to  hear  you  speak  in  that  eager  way.  Don't 
you  suppose  we  recognize  you  as  the  power  behind 
the  throne  ?  I  told  the  ladies  I  felt  sure  you  would 
be  on  our  side ;  for,  though  your  boy  is  only  five,  the 
years  go  fast  ;  and  they  make  drunkards  of  them 
now  at  fifteen  ;  this  is  a  hurrying  age,  you  know. 
I  feel  sure  you  will  save  us  from  this  curse  in  our 


COMING    TO    AN    UNDERSTANDING.  1 25 

midst,  dear  madam,  for  the  sake  of  your  boy  and 
mine." 

Ruth  looked  utterly  puzzled,  and  also  pained. 
What  wild  scheme  had  this  excited  woman  in 
mind,  which  she  fondly  imagined  would  tide  them 
over  this  present  danger  ? 

She  spoke  low  and  gently,  in  the  hope  of  calm- 
ing the  evident  excitement  of  her  guest  :  — 

"  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea  what  you  mean  ; 
believe  me,  there  is  nothing  that  I  would  not  do  to 
help,  were  it  in  my  power  ;  but  how  I  can  do  any- 
thing, I  cannot  imagine." 

Mrs.  Bacon  regarded  her  curiously,  evidently 
puzzled  in  turn. 

"  Why,  my  dear  Mrs.  Burnham,"  she  said  at 
last,  "  is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  know  that 
your  husband  is  the  owner  of  the  Shenandoah  ? 
And  that  by  the  terms  of  the  lease,  his  consent 
must  be  obtained  before  any  liquors  can  be  brought 
into  the  house  ?  " 


126  "  W.  C.  T.  U. 


CHAPTER  XL 


"W.   C.  T.  U." 


NO,  Mrs.  Burnham  had  not  known  this.  Her 
husband's  business  interests  were  so  exten- 
sive, and  the  pressure  of  care  upon  him  so  heavy, 
that  even  had  he  deemed  it  worth  mentioning,  he 
might  not  have  thought  of  it  at  an  opportune 
moment.  And,  indeed,  he  was  so  decidedly  a  man 
who  threw  off  business  cares  the  moment  he  reached 
his  own  door,  and  who  never  even  thought  of  such 
a  thing  as  chatting  confidentially  with  his  wife 
about  them,  that  to  have  remarked,  "  The  Shenan- 
doah property  came  into  my  hands  to-day,  through 
the  failure  of  the  firm  of  Bell  &  Pealer,  "  would 
have  had  an  absurdly  inappropriate  sound  to  him. 
So  Ruth  sat  silent  and  appalled  before  the  news. 
Her  husband  the  owner  of  the  Shenandoah ! 
This,  then,  was  why  she  might  naturally  be  sup- 
posed to  have  power  in  the  question  at  issue  ;  and 
her  cheek  paled  over  the  realization  of  how  power- 
less she  was.  Her  instant  change  of  manner  was 
not  lost  on  Mrs.  Bacon,  who  shrewdly  said  to  her- 
self :  "  She  didn't  know  it  before,  and  it  evidently 


"  W.   C.   T.   U.  127 

makes  a  difference  into  whose  pockets  the  results 
are  to  go.  O,  me !  who  would  have  supposed 
that  a  Christian  woman,  with  a  son  to  rear,  could 
stop  over  considerations  like  these."  And  she 
was  as  correct  in  her  conclusions  as  the  majority 
of  persons  are  who  sit  in  judgment  on  the  acts  of 
their  brothers  and  sisters. 

Mrs.  Burnham  spoke  at  last,  slowly,  choosing 
her  words  with  care  ;  she  had  no  mind  to  show  the 
sorrowful  secrets  of  her  home  to  Mrs.  Bacon. 

"You  give  me  credit  for  altogether  too  much 
power,  dear  madam  ;  gentlemen  are  noted,  I  be- 
lieve, for  supposing  that  their  wives  know  nothing 
about  business,  and,  in  my  husband's  case,  it 
would  be  fair  enough ;  I  profess  to  know  very 
little  in  that  line.  Besides,  Judge  Burnham  is  pre- 
eminently a  man  who  does  not  discuss  business 
out  of  business  hours  ;  in  proof  of  which  I  might 
tell  you  that  I  did  not  know  he  was  the  owner  of 
the  Shenandoah.  The  utmost  that  I  can  do  is  to 
repeat  my  assurance  of  sympathy  and  willingness 
to  help  in  whatever  way  I  can  ;  at  the  same  time 
reminding  you  that  I  may  not  be  able  to  accomplish 
anything." 

Yet  as  she  went  wearily  up  the  stairs,  after  her 
caller  had  departed,  she  thought  that  nothing  could 
be  more  unpropitious  for  her  schemes  in  regard  to 
the  evening  party  than  these  questions  of  con- 
science which  seemed  to  be  pressing  in  on  every 
hand. 


128  "w.  C.  T.  u." 

Nevertheless,  as  she  thought  more  about  Mrs. 
Bacon's  petition,  her  courage  rose.  Judge  Burn- 
ham  might  not  be  a  total  abstinence  man,  but  he 
despised  drunkenness  ;  and  being  a  lawyer,  well 
versed  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  he  must  know 
how  disastrous  to  the  interests  of  a  place  which 
boasted  of  itself  as  a  safe  country  home  for  young 
people  would  be  the  introduction  of  that  which 
did  more  than  anything  else  to  make  life  unsafe. 
Besides  —  and  on  this  she  built  strong  hopes  — • 
Judge  Burnham's  pride  would  be  at  stake.  Would 
he  want  it  to  go  out  through  these  earnest  women 
that  he  feared  for  his  rents  to  such  a  degree  that 
he  was  willing  to  introduce  wines  and  brandies 
as  security  ?  It  would  certainly  have  an  offensive 
sound  if  she  put  it  to  him  in  that  light.  She 
thought  so  constantly  about  it,  and  went  over 
her  arguments  so  many  times,  that  she  worked 
herself  into  a  state  of  feverish  haste  to  have  the 
interview  over.  She  dreaded  it,  but  went  steadily 
toward  it  with  much  the  same  feeling  that  one  has 
in  laying  vigorous  hold  of  any  cross  which  must 
be  borne  :  "  If  this  thing  must  needs  be,  let  me 
get  through  with  it  as  speedily  as  possible." 

Judge  Burnham  was  in  his  worst  mood  —  courtly, 
suave  and  sarcastic.  Yes,  he  had  met  some  of  those 
interesting  females  who  went  about  attending  to 
other  people's  business  ;  one  always  wondered  who 
attended,  meantime,  to  their  homes.  "  Women's 
Constant  Talking  Unions  "  they  ought  to  be  named, 


It 


•  » 


W.  C.  T.  U.  129 


the  tendency  to  talk  steadily,  for  an  unprecedented 
length  of  time,  on  subjects  of  which  they  knew 
nothing,  seeming  to  be  a  marked  feature  of  their 
organization,  so  far  as  he  had  observed  it.  He 
had  always  thought  that  if  he  had  been  so  unfortu- 
nate as  to  choose  a  wife  with  no  more  brains  than 
to  join  herself  to  such  a  company,  he  might  be 
justified  for  once  in  returning  to  the  old  Blue 
Laws,  and  confining  her  on  bread  and  water  until 
she  came  to  a  better  mind.  Which  particular 
member  of  the  troop  had  honored  her  with  a 
call  ?  O,  yes  !  he  had  the  honor  of  a  speaking 
acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Stuart  Bacon.  He  had 
supposed  her  to  be  remarkable  for  nothing  but  a 
very  ill-shaped  mouth,  but  it  seems  she  had  other 
accomplishments  ;  no  wonder  the  mouth  was  ill- 
shaped,  since  it  had  such  ungraceful  work  to  do. 
Yes,  he  had  the  honor  of  being  the  owner  of  the 
Shenandoah  ;  it  had  not  entered  his  mind  to  object 
to  the  lessee's  proposition  ;  of  course  the  law  sus- 
tained him  ;  it  would  be  a  return  to  the  Dark 
Ages  with  interest,  if  a  man  must  be  dictated  to 
as  to  what  he  should  have  for  his  money  at  a  hotel. 
There  was  nothing  unpleasant  about  it  ;  nothing 
that  reasonable  people  could  object  to  ;  merely  light 
wines,  such  as  orange  wine  and  the  like  —  whole- 
some and  refreshing  beverages  for  refined  people. 
The  class  of  guests  that  patronized  the  Shenandoah 
would  not  be  likely  to  demean  themselves  in  any 
way  ;  they  took  care  to  keep  the  prices  too  high 


I30  "  W.   C.  T.  U." 


for  the  common  people.  O,  yes  !  the  same  law- 
admitted  light  wines  to  the  other,  more  common 
hotels  of  the  place,  of  course  ;  but  he  didn't  own 
them,  and  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  their 
affairs.  As  for  his  influence,  he  imagined  that 
he  should  succeed  in  conducting  himself  in  the 
future  as  in  the  past,  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  above 
reproach,  at  least  outside  of  his  own  family.  Of 
course  Mrs.  Stuart  Bacon  and  a  few  gossiping 
women  of  her  clique  would  talk  ;  that  was  their 
special  forte,  as  he  had  intimated  ;  probably  he 
would  come  in  for  a  share  of  the  censure  that 
they  distributed  so  liberally,  but  he  believed  he 
was  able  to  endure  even  that. 

In  short,  Ruth  knew,  long  before  the  interview 
was  concluded,  that  her  plea  was  utterly  hopeless. 
The  very  pride  on  which  she  had  depended  seemed 
to  be  a  weapon  turned  against  her.  His  pride 
would  not  permit  him  to  seem  to  be  swerved  from 
his  position  one  half  inch  by  what  he  was  pleased 
to  term  "  gossiping  interference  in  what  did  not 
concern  them."  I  have  not  given  you  an  idea  of 
the  half  he  said.  Through  the  entire  interview  he 
maintained  his  ironical  tone  and  careless  manner, 
omitting  no  opportunity  for  using  the  keen  sarcasm 
in  which  nature  and  education  had  made  him  an. 
expert.  Maintaining,  also,  his  air  of  exceeding 
politeness  and  courteous  attention,  even  bending 
to  draw  a  wrap  closer  about  his  wife,  when  he  saw 
that  she  shivered,  and  himself  rearranging  the  open 


"W.  C.  T.  U."  I31 


grate  fire  which  he  knew  was  one  of  her  luxuries. 
And  finally  paring  with  much  care  an  orange,  half 
of  which  he  presented  to  her  on  a  fruit  plate  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  her  earnest  arguments,  with 
the  smiling  statement  that  perhaps  she  would  not 
object  to  orange  juice  in  that  shape,  although 
she  had  spurned  his  other  offering  meant  for  her 
refreshment. 

Altogether,  Ruth  went  from  the  room  more 
utterly  humiliated  than  she  ever  remembered  to 
have  been  before. 

That  she  had  signally  failed,  was  only  too 
evident ;  that  she  had  nothing  but  failure  to  re- 
port to  the  waiting  and  hopeful  ladies,  was  morti- 
fication enough  ;  but  there  were  deeper  reaches  to 
it  than  this.  How  had  it  happened  that  she,  who 
had  been  so  eagerly  sought  after,  so  earnestly 
and  persistently  wooed,  chosen  without  a  doubt 
because  she  was  beloved,  how  had  it  come  to  pass 
that  after  the  lapse  of  years  she  really  had  no 
more  influence  with  her  husband  than  this  ? 

Failing  in  appreciating  her  conscientious  scruples, 
why  did  he  not,  at  least  in  a  matter  of  this  kind, 
involving  only  money,  take  pleasure  in  yielding  to 
her  whims  if  he  pleased  to  call  them  so  ?  She 
knew  husbands  who  gratified  their  wives,  from  no 
higher  motives  than  such  as  these.  Why  was  not 
her  wish  in  these  matters  a  law  to  him,  which 
it  gave  him  pleasure  to  follow  ?  Long  into  the 
night  Ruth  questioned,  and  wept,  and  prayed  and 


132  "  W.  C.  T.   U 


't 


mourned.  Nothing  was  plainer  to  her  than  that 
even  the  Christian  life  for  which  she  thought  she 
was  all  the  while  contending,  had  been  largely  a 
failure. 

She  had  succeeded  only  in  irritating  her  husband 
by  her  display  of  it.  It  had  brought  no  sunshine 
into  her  home  or  life.  She  had  not  yielded  in 
places  where  she  could  have  done  so,  as  well  as 
not.  She  had  consulted  her  tastes,  instead  of  her 
husband's,  even  where  conscience  had  had  nothing 
to  say.  She  had  been  a  painstaking  mother,  but 
even  here  she  had  failed.  Had  she  not  often  let 
her  morbid  fears  of  what  might  happen,  not  to  the 
soul,  but  to  the  beautiful  body  of  the  boy,  push  in 
and  thwart  some  cherished  scheme  of  his  father's  ? 

Was  it,  after  all,  any  wonder  that  when  she 
suddenly  confronted  him  with  her  opinions,  and 
almost  demanded  from  him  actions  in  accordance 
with  her  ideas,  that  he  should  resort  to  sarcasm 
and  irony  and  hold  his  ground  ? 

Never  had  poor  Ruth's  insulted  conscience  read 
her  a  sterner  lecture  than  on  that  weary  night. 
Humiliating  failure  !  and  the  humiliating  confes- 
sion to  her  own  heart  that  she  was,  in  a  sense,  to 
blame.  And  the  very  hardest  of  it  was,  that  she 
saw  no  way  out.  She  could  not  explain  these 
things  to  her  husband,  because  he  was  on  such  a 
different  moral  plane  from  herself  that  he  would 
utterly  misunderstand  her  ;  he  would  think  she 
had  confessed  herself  as  wrong  in  principle,  and 


"  \V.  C.  T.  U.  133 

would  immediately,  as  indeed  he  had  already  done, 
plan  for  the  most  impossible  concessions  to  his 
views. 

But  in  the  meantime,  she  must  put  aside  all 
these  burdens  and  decide  just  what  to  do.  She 
had  promised  to  report  the  result  of  her  effort. 
How  should  she  do  it  ?  She  would  write  to  the 
ladies  ;  would  explain  that  her  husband  had  given 
his  word,  before  she  knew  anything  about  the  mat- 
ter, and  could  not  withdraw  from  it  honorably. 
He  had  said  as  much  ;  could  she  not  repeat  it  ? 
and  was  more  detail  than  this  necessary  ?  Yet 
her  honest  soul  revolted  from  such  a  statement  ; 
for  she  knew  at  this  moment  that  the  matter  was 
still  not  so  fully  settled  but  that  had  it  been  made 
to  appear  for  Judge  Burnham's  interests  to  change, 
he  would  probably  have  done  so.  The  furthest  she 
got  at  last,  was  to  determine  to  wait  another  day 
until  her  intense  excitement  and  pain  had  had 
time  to  dull  a  little  before  she  attempted  any  re- 
port. Afterward,  she  wondered  whether  even  that 
had  not  been  a  concession  to  the  enemy,  which  had 
caused  her  more  trouble. 

In  point  of  fact,  two  days  passed,  and  still  she 
had  made  the  waiting  and  anxious  ladies  no  reply. 
As  she  went  down  to  dinner  on  the  evening  of  the 
second  day,  she  assured  herself  that  she  would 
write  that  letter  the  next  morning  before  ten 
o'clock;  but  she  did  not.  Life  had  gone  with  hc-r 
during  these  two  days  much  as  usual.      She  had 


134  "w-  c-  T-  u 


i  y 


seen  almost  nothing  of  her  husband,  he  having 
been  detained  in  town  late,  by  reason  of  some  pro- 
fessional perplexity.  The  young  ladies  were  busy 
with  their  regular  routine  of  society  life  ;  the  week 
had  perhaps  been  unusually  gay,  and  Ruth  and  her 
boy  had  spent  much  time  alone. 

Was  it  fate,  she  wondered,  or  providence  that 
led  her  that  evening  as  they  were  on  their  way 
down  to  dinner,,  to  say  with  sudden  fervor  of 
appeal  to  the  impressionable  boy  the  words  she 
did  ?  They  had  been  standing  by  the  window 
watching  for  papa,  and  had  seen  reeling  by,  a 
young  man  — scarcely  that;  a  mere  boy  in  years  — 
well-dressed,  with  the  air  even  then  of  the  well- 
bred  about  him,  but  with  that  painful  swaying  in 
his  walk  that  can  mean  but  one  thing.  And  the 
boy  had  been  startled,  dismayed,  and  had  ques- 
tioned eagerly,  and  returned  to  the  subject  again 
and  again,  and  the  mother,  with  a  terrible  pain  in 
her  heart,  had  recognized  the  young  man  as  Mrs. 
Stuart  Bacon's  son.  On  the  way  down-stairs, 
Erskine  had  put  his  other  question,  and  then  she 
had  turned  to  him  with  this  appeal,  — 

"  My  boy,  promise  your  mother  that  you  will 
never  touch  a  drop  of  anything  that  can  possibly 
make  you  walk  as  that  young  man  did  !  " 

"  Why,  mamma,  I  have  promised,  you  know.  I 
promised  you,  and  I  promised  God." 

"  I  know  it,  my  darling  ;  promise  again.  Mamma 
loves  to  hear  the  words  :    Whatever  happens,  who- 


"W.  C.  T.  U.  135 

ever  asks  you,  unless  you  are  very,  very  sick,  and 
the  doctor,  and  mamma,  too,  if  I  am  there,  say  it 
is  right." 

She  could  not  help  that  little  proviso.  And  the 
boy  promised  again.  Then  they  went  into  the 
dining-room,  and  that  miserable  orange  wine  was 
on  the  table.  It  had  been  on  several  times  since 
the  first  scene  connected  with  it,  and  the  Judge 
and  his  daughters  had  drank  it  when  they  would, 
but  none  had  been  offered  to  Mrs.  Burnham  or  the 
child. 

Judge  Burnham  was  not  in  an  amiable  mood. 
Heavy  wrinkles  made  seams  across  his  forehead, 
and  his  eyes  had  an  irritable  glitter  in  them.  Truth 
to  tell,  he  was  not  so  indifferent  to  the  tongues  of 
a  few  gossiping  women  as  he  would  have  his  wife 
imagine,  and  the  Woman's  Christian  Temperance 
Union,  while  waiting  for  their  report  from  Mrs. 
Burnham,  had  by  no  means  been  idle,  and  sen- 
tences not  complimentary  to  his  name  had  reached 
his  ears  several  times  during  the  day.  These,  in 
connection  with  certain  other  business  perplex- 
ities, served  to  make  him  less  ready  than  usual  to 
throw  aside  care. 

I  am  afraid  it  must  be  admitted  that  it  was 
pure  maliciousness  on  the  part  of  Minta  that  made 
her  suddenly  exclaim,  looking  at  Erskine,  "How 
thin  and  pale  that  child  is  growing  !  He  needs 
tonics,  I  believe.  Here,  Erskine,  take  a  swallow 
of  this,  and  sec  how  nice  it  is  ;   it  will  be  good  for 


13^  "  W.   C.  T.  U. 


»> 


you."     And    she  held    toward   him    her   glass    of 
wine. 

It  was  maliciousness,  I  suppose,  but  not  very- 
deep.  She  was  rather  fond  of  a  little  scene,  such 
as  would  call  a  flush  to  her  step-mother's  face,  and 
give  them  the  benefit  of  a  sharp  passage  at  arms. 
She  expected  nothing  more  ;  but  almost  in  the 
same  breath  with  Erskine's  "  O,  no  !  thank  you  ; 
I  don't  want  any,"  came  his  father's  stern  com- 
mand, — 

"  Erskine,  do  as  your  sister  tells  you,  at  once  !  " 

Then  Erskine,  trembling  under  the  weight  of 
the  sternness  —  he  had  never  been  spoken  to  in 
that  tone  in  his  life  before,  — 

"  Oh  !  but,  papa,  I  can't  ;  please  excuse  me  :  I 
cannot  drink  any  wine." 

"  Obey  me  immediately  !  " 

"  Oh  !  but,  papa,  I  can't,  you  know  ;  I  promised." 

"  Erskine,  either  obey  me  immediately,  and  take 
a  drink  from  that  glass,  or  go  to  my  dressing-room, 
and  wait  there  until  I  come." 

Trembling,  frightened,  half-blinded  by  the  rush 
of  tears,  the  little  boy  did  not  hesitate  even  for  a 
second,  but  went  across  the  room  and  out  of  the 
door. 

It  was  well  that  the  meal  was  nearly  concluded, 
and  the  servants  had  left  the  room.  The  mother 
felt  that  though  her  life  had  depended  on  it,  she 
could  neither  have  eaten  another  mouthful  nor 
spoken  another  word. 


"  \V.  C.  T.   U.  137 

As  for  Minta,  to  do  her  justice,  she  was  half- 
scared  and  wholly  repentant. 

A  messenger  came  just  as  they  left  the  table 
with  a  business  telegram  for  Judge  Burnham.  He 
detained  the  boy  while  he  wrote  a  reply,  and  Ruth 
went  with  swift  steps  to  his  dressing-room. 

"  Mamma,  O,  clear  mamma  !  "  said  the  frightened 
child,  "  what  made  papa  speak  so  to  me  ?  Was  I 
naughty  ? " 

"  My  darling,  did  you  not  keep  the  promise  that 
you  made  to  God  ?     How  could  that  be  naughty  ?  " 

"  But  it  made  papa  angry.  Oh  !  dear  mamma, 
what  will  he  do  ?  Will  he  whip  me,  do  you  think, 
like  the  boy  in  the  picture  ?  " 

"  My  darling,  that  was  a  picture  of  a  drunken 
man  ;  you  have  no  such  father  as  that.  Papa 
does  not  understand  ;  he  will  let  you  explain,  I 
think.     I  will  see  him  myself  if  I  can." 

And  to  the  baby's  urging  that  she  would  stay 
with  him,  she  turned  resolutely  away,  assuring  him 
that  that  would  be  treating  papa  rudely,  and  that 
she  would  try  to  see  him,  and  explain  what  Erskine 
meant.  But  she  did  not.  He  went  directly  to  his 
dressing-room  by  way  of  the  library  stair-case,  and 
let  himself  in  at  the  back  door  with  his  key. 


I38        "  THE  DEED  FOR  THE  WILL 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"THE  DEED  FOR  THE  WILL." 

MRS.  BURNHAM,  failing  in  her  intention 
to  waylay  her  husband,  returned  to  her 
own  room,  which  opened  into  the  dressing-room. 
Too  nervous  to  take  a  seat,  she  walked  the  floor, 
anxious,  irresolute,  miserable.  She  longed  to  go 
to  her  child,  but  would  not  insult  her  husband 
by  seeming  to  be  afraid  to  leave  his  son  alone 
with  him.  Ominous  silence  reigned  in  the  dress- 
ing-room. Judge  Burnham  had  opened  a  drawer 
somewhat  noisily  on  the  moment  of  his  entrance, 
but  had  spoken  no  word,  so  far  as  his  wife  could 
hear.  Suddenly  on  the  quiet  air  came  the  sound 
of  a  blow,  accompanied  by  a  little  wailing  cry,  — 

"  O,  papa,  dear  papa,  please  don't !  Mamma 
said  you  wouldn't  ;  she  said  you  would  let  me 
explain  that  I  couldn't,  because  I  have  promised 
God." 

No  reply  at  all  from  the  angry  father,  save  of 
the  sort  which  seemed  to  scar  Ruth's  very  soul. 
Her  little  sheltered  darling,  who  had  never  before 
known  what  physical  pain  was,  except  as  sickness 


"THE    DEED    FOR    THE    WILL."  1 39 

had  shown  it  to  him  !  How  could  his  father  strike 
the  little  delicate  hand,  and  for  such  a  reason ! 
The  wife's  whole  soul  rose  up  in  rebellion. 

"  Please,  papa,  let  me  tell  you  about  it.  Oh  ! 
papa,  you  hurt  me  very  much." 

But  there  was  no  reply.  Should  the  mother 
rush  in,  and,  before  her  child,  demand  that  this 
insulting  demonstration  of  passion  should  cease  ? 
All  her  ideas  of  wifely  loyalty  rose  up  to  object 
to  this  course,  but  she  paced  the  floor  like  a  caged 
lioness,  and  said  aloud,  — 

"  I  cannot  bear  this  ;  I  ought  not  to  bear  it." 

It  was  well,  perhaps,  for  all  concerned  that  the 
scene  was  short.  Judge  Burnham  spoke  at  last  a 
few  low  words,  which  his  wife  could  not  catch,  and 
then  immediately  entered  her  room. 

Erskine's  punishment  had  been  neither  prolonged 
nor  severe.  The  average  boy  would  probably  have 
minded  it  but  very  little ;  would  perhaps  have  been 
used  to  such  a  mode  of  correction.  But  Ruth 
knew  that  her  cherished  son,  with  his  unusually 
gentle  and  easily-ruled  nature,  had  inherited  from 
her  such  a  shrinking  horror  of  anything  in  the 
form  of  a  blow,  that  she  felt  sure  he  must  be 
quivering  from  head  to  foot,  not  with  physical 
pain,  but  with  a  sort  of  nervous  terror,  which  he 
did  not  understand  and  could  not  control.  She 
was  not,  therefore,  in  a  mood  to  receive  her  hus- 
band's words  quietly. 

"  Mrs.  Burnham,  I  request  as  a  favor  that  you 


I4O        "  THE  DEED  FOR  THE  WILL. 

will  not  see  Erskine  again  to-night  ;  I  have  pun- 
ished him  for  disobedience,  and  told  him  to  go 
immediately  to  bed." 

He  had  seen  his  wife  in  various  states  of  mind 
in  the  course  of  the  last  half-dozen  years,  but  had 
never  felt  before,  and  may  never  again,  the  blaze 
that  was  in  her  eyes  as  she  turned  them  fully  on 
him,  and  spoke  in  low,  quick  tones  :  — 

"  It  is  a  favor  which  will  not  be  granted.  You 
have  been  cruel  and  unjust.  If  you  have  a  moral 
nature,  you  must  by  this  time  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self. I  shall  go  to  my  child  at  once,  and  make 
what  reparation  I  can  for  his  father's  injustice." 

Then,  before  he  could  recover  himself  sufficiently 
to  detain  her  even  with  a  word,  she  had  disappeared 
through  the  door  which  led  into  Erskine's  fair  little 
room. 

As  she  had  supposed,  she  found  the  child  sobbing 
violently.  He  had  run  to  his  room,  by  the  dressing- 
room  entrance,  the  instant  his  father  released  him, 
and,  burying  his  little  brown  head  in  the  pillows, 
was  trembling  and  moaning,  so  that  one  who  under- 
stood him  less  than  his  mother,  would  have  sup- 
posed him  in  mortal  pain.  In  an  instant  he  was 
gathered  to  her  arms,  covered  with  kisses  and 
caresses,  and  overwhelmed  with  loving  words.- 
But  he  could  not  yet  control  the  tempest  of  sur- 
prise and  pain. 

"  O,  mamma  !  "  he  sobbed,  "  O,  mamma  !  he 
did  —  he  did  like  the  man  in  the  picture.     You 


"  THE    DEED    FOR    THE    WILL."  I4I 


said  he  wouldn't,  and  he  did.     O,  mamma  !  what 
can  I  do  ?     O,  mamma  !  " 

If  Mrs.  Burnham  should  live  to  be  a  white- 
haired  old  woman,  she  will  never,  I  think,  for- 
get the  experiences  of  that  evening.  It  was  not 
because  the  boy  had  been  made  to  suffer  physically. 
She  had  sense  enough,  even  in  her  excitement,  to 
understand  that  the  punishment  had  been  what 
people  accustomed  to  such  ways  of  dealing  with 
their  children  would  have  called  slight  ;  but  there 
are  pains  much  deeper  than  those  which  the  flesh 
can  endure.  She  knew  only  too  well  that  her 
child  had  lost  faith  in  his  father.  How  was  it 
possible  for  the  thoughtful  boy,  wise  beyond  his 
years,  to  think  that  he  had  been  treated  other 
than  unjustly,  especially  in  the  light  of  the  ques- 
tions he  asked,  and  the  answers  she  felt  obliged  to 
give  ? 

"  Did  I  do  wrong,  mamma  ?  You  said  I  didn't. 
But  if  I  didn't,  why  did  papa  punish  me  ?  You 
said  they  punished  people  who  did  wrong  ?" 

"  My  darling,  I  cannot  think  that  you  did  any- 
thing wrong.  You  had  made  a  solemn  promise. 
Papa  did  not  know  it  ;  did  not  understand  ;  he 
thought  you  were  disobedient." 

"Oh!  but,  mamma,  I  told  him.  I  told  him  that 
I  had  got  down  on  my  knees  and  promised  God 
that  I  never  would,  and  he  didn't  listen  at  all. 
O,  mamma,  mamma!  will  he  punish  me  every 
time  I  try  to  keep  my  promise  to  God  ?  " 


142  "THE  deed  for  the  will." 


Do  you  wonder  that  the  troubled  mother  set  her 
lips  hard,  and  said  in  her  heart,  "  No,  he  never 
shall  ?  "  But  she  had  grace  enough  not  to  say  it 
aloud.     Yet  what  must  she  say  ? 

She  drew  a  low  rocker  and  took  the  still  trem- 
bling child  in  her  arms,  dipping  her  hand  in  cold 
water,  and  then  making  with  it  soft,  cooling  touches 
over  the  heated  face  and  head,  and  speaking  low 
and  soothingly :  — 

"  My  darling,  mamma's  darling,  there  are  some 
things  that  I  cannot  explain  ;  when  you  are  older 
you  will  understand.  I  do  not  think  papa  will 
punish  you  in  this  way  again.  When  he  thinks  it 
over,  he  will  see  that  you  meant  to  do  right." 

Silence  for  a  moment  :  then  the  voice  went  on 
firmly.     Her  decision  had  been  made. 

"Erskine,  papa  does  not  think  about  some 
things  as  I  do,  and  as  I  believe  God  does,  and  as 
I  want  you  to  think.  Some  day  I  hope  he  will, 
and  you  and  I  must  pray  every  day  to  the  dear 
God  to  make  papa  his  follower  in  all  things.  In 
the  meantime,  my  darling,  what  you  and  I  find  in 
the  Bible  that  God  has  spoken,  we  will  try  to  do 
always,  whether  it  is  hard  or  easy.     Shall  we  not?" 

She  had  never  said  so  much  before  ;  questions 
innumerable  she  had  evaded  or  half-answered,  after  . 
the  manner  of  loyal  Christian  wives,  in  divided 
homes  ;  now  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  time  had 
come  when  she  must  plainly  say,  "  There  are 
things,  solemn,  all-important  things,  about  which 


"  THE    DEED    FOR    THE    WILL."  I43 


we  are  not  agreed."  But  what  an  admission  for  a 
wife  to  make  !  Will  she  ever  forget  the  pain  of 
that  last  question,  asked  with  a  little  sobbing  sigh, 
before  her  baby  went  to  sleep,  "  Oh  !  dear  mamma, 
why  do  not  papas  and  mammas  both  think  like 
God  ? " 

At  the  earliest  possible  hour  when  a  call  was 
admissible,  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Burnham's 
card  was  sent  up  to  Mrs.  Stuart  Bacon.  She  had 
determined  to  give  her  answer  in  person.  She 
made  no  attempt  at  circumlocution,  but  came  di- 
rectly to  the  point :  — 

"  Mrs.  Bacon,  I  have  failed  in  the  work  given 
me  to  do  ;  perhaps  you  know  from  your  experi- 
ences of  life  that  husband  and  wife  are  not  always 
as  one  where  business  matters  are  concerned  ;  I 
think  my  husband  believes  his  word  to  be  pledged. 
No  words  of  mine  will  express  to  you  the  regret 
that  I  feel  at  my  failure.  I  have  not  shown  my- 
self so  skillful  a  worker  that  you  should  care  to 
have  me  join  your  ranks,  but,  at  the  same  time,  I 
want  to  say  to  you  that  I  have  changed  my  mind 
since  Tuesday.  I  want  to  join  your  Union,  and  I 
pledge  my  personal  support  and  effort  in  any  direc- 
tion where  I  can  be  made  useful." 

So  much,  at  least,  for  the  cause  Judge  Burnham 
had  accomplished.  He  was  not  a  very  self-com- 
placent man  during  the  days  that  immediately 
followed.  His  wife's  cold,  stern  words  had  burned 
deeply,  and  as  soon  as  the  first  storm  of  passion 


144  "  THE    CEED    FOR    THE    WILL." 


was  over,  he  could  not  but  acknowledge  to  himself 
that  there  had  been  a  shade  of  truth  in  them. 

What  a  surprising  thing  that  he  who  had  always 
prided  himself  on  his  liberality  of  thought  and 
feeling,  who  had  always  good-naturedly  argued 
that  the  veriest  cranks  of  society  should  be  al- 
lowed to  ride  their  hobbies  according  to  their  own 
sweet  wills,  so  long  as  they  injured  no  one;  that 
he  should  have  so  far  forgotten  himself  as  to 
command  a  child  to  do  that  which  was  not  only 
contrary  to  his  mother's  teachings,  but  contrary 
to  the  baby's  notions  of  what  a  Supreme  Being 
demanded  of  him  ! 

Judge  Burnham  was  by  no  means  a  Christian 
man  ;  at  the  same  time  he  was  very  far  removed 
from  being  an  infidel.  He  often  smiled,  and  occa- 
sionally he  sneered,  at  some  of  the  ideas  belonging 
to  Christianity  ;  still,  he  explained  to  himself  that 
his  smiles  and  sneers  were  for  the  out-croppings  of 
ideas  belonging  to  ignorant  fanatics,  not  to  the 
actual  verities  themselves.  He  assured  himself 
that  certain  forms  of  worship  were  eminently  fit- 
ting as  offered  to  the  Creator  by  the  creature  ; 
also  that  certain  outgrowths  of  Christianity  were 
elevating  and  worthy  of  all  respect.  He  assured 
himself  that  he  had  never  objected  to  his  wife's 
position  as  a  member  of  the  church.  That  was 
eminently  a  fitting  position  for  a  woman  ;  it  was 
the  unreasoning  submission  which  she  gave  to  the 
demands  of  fanaticism  that  disturbed  him. 


"the  deed  for  the  will."  145 

But  that  he  should  have  so  far  forgotten  himself 
as  to  allow  his  child  to  see  that  there  was  a  differ- 
ence of  opinion  between  them  was,  he  admitted, 
ungentlemanly. 

Especially  was  it  offensive  to  him  that  the  differ- 
ence of  opinion  should  have  shown  itself  in  the 
line  of  a  mere  appetite ;  a  thing  which  should,  of 
course,  be  subordinate  ;  as  he  thought  of  it,  he 
actually  could  not  help  curling  his  lip  at  himself. 
It  was  of  no  use  trying  to  restore  his  self-respect 
by  saying  that  the  issue  between  them  had  to  be 
met,  and  disobedience  punished,  no  matter  how 
trifling  the  occasion  ;  he  was  perfectly  aware  that 
he  had  himself  made  the  issue,  made  it  unneces- 
sarily, in  a  way  that  he  would  not  have  done,  had 
he  not  been  irritated  about  something  else  ;  and 
that,  while  it  was  a  trifle  to  him,  it  was  an  in- 
tensely serious  matter  to  the  child. 

On  the  whole,  the  gentleman  did  what  might, 
perhaps,  be  called  somewhat  profitable  thinking 
during  the  days  that  followed. 

To  his  wife  he  was  unfailingly  courteous,  even 
kind,  despite  her  cold,  quiet  dignity  ;  he  made  no 
attempt  to  resent  this  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  even 
respected  her  for  it.  She  had  spoken  some  very 
plain  words  to  him  —  words  which  stung  deeply  at 
the  time,  but  he  could  not  help  the  admission  that 
there  was  truth  in  them.  You  will  remember 
that  he  was  a  successful  lawyer  ;  accustomed  to 
weighing  questions  carefully,  and  giving  decisions, 


I46  "  THE    DEED    FOR    THE    WILL." 

and  his  judgment  had  given  a  decision  in  this  case 
which  by  no  means  acquitted  himself.  He  was 
not  the  sort  of  man  who  could  frankly  say,  "  I 
was  in  the  wrong,  I  beg  you  will  forgive."  Such 
a  statement  calls  for  a  very  high  grade  of  charac- 
ter ;  calls,  perhaps,  for  Christian  character,  though 
there  have  been  men  who  knew  how  to  say  "  for- 
give me  "  to  mortals,  not  yet  having  learned  to 
say  it  to  Christ. 

Judge  Burnham  was  not  one,  but  he  knew  how 
to  act  the  words  gracefully  and  persistently.  His 
little  son  helped  him  also  to  a  smaller  opinion  of 
himself ;  no  trace  of  resentment  lingered  on  the 
child's  sweet,  bright  face.  A  little  touch  of  shy- 
ness there  was,  a  questioning,  half-startled  glance, 
each  time  he  met  him  afresh,  as  though  he  were 
wondering  in  his  child-mind  whether  he  had  un- 
wittingly given  occasion  for  offense,  but,  receiving 
his  father's  smile,  he  sprang  joyously  into  his  arms 
and  lavished  kisses  as  before.  They  were  inex- 
pressibly sweet  to  the  father's  heart.  Ruth,  too, 
was  glad  over  them.  Her  own  soul  had  been 
hurt,  but  she  did  not  wish  the  child  to  feel  a  last- 
ing sting.  He  had  settled  the  question  for  him- 
self with  the  next  morning's  sunlight.  "  Mamma," 
he  had  said,  with  his  brightest  smile,  "  I've  thought 
it  all  out  ;  he  did  not  want  me  to  disobey  you  and 
God,  but  he  had  to  punish  me  because  I  disobeyed 
him  ;  don't  you  see  ?  I  don't  mind  it  now  ;  it 
didn't  hurt  me  much,  only  it  was  so  dreadful,  you 


"the  deed  for  the  will.  147 

know.  But  now  that  I  understand,  it  doesn't 
seem  bad." 

It  was  baby  logic  ;  Ruth  had  to  smile  over  it, 
albeit  behind  the  smile  there  was  a  tear  ;  but  she 
made  no  attempt  to  reason  the  thought  away.  In 
fact,  as  the  days  passed,  there  seemed  to  be 
method  in  the  reasoning.  The  objectionable  wine 
was  on  the  table  once  or  twice,  but  none  was 
offered  to  the  child  ;  and,  on  the  third  day  after 
the  dinner-table  scene,  Ruth  overheard  this  order 
given  by  the  master  of  the  house,  — 

"  Robert,  you  need  not  serve  any  more  of  that 
wine  at  table  ;  Mrs.  Burnham  doesn't  care  for  it, 
and  it  isn't  what  I  thought  it  was  ;  pack  it  away  in 
the  cellar  ;  it  may  be  needed  sometime." 

It  was  nearly  a  week  afterward  that  Judge  Burn- 
ham  came  home  earlier  by  several  hours  than  was 
his  custom,  and  found  both  his  wife  and  son  in  the 
library,  intent  over  a  new  book  that  had  many 
illustrations.  The  child  sprang  to  meet  him  as 
usual.  Ruth  tried  to  make  her  greeting  cordial  ; 
she  did  not  want  to  continue  the  wall  of  reserve 
that  she  had  raised  between  her  husband  and  her- 
self, but  she  did  not  know  how  to  lower  it.  That 
he  had  pained  her  unutterably  was  not  to  be  denied, 
but  that  because  of  it  she  was  henceforth  to  show 
only  cold  displeasure,  was,  of  course,  folly  ;  the 
more  so  because  of  the  boy's  constant  lesson  of 
confiding  love. 

So  now  she  closed   her  book,  and  made   some 


I48  "  THE    DEED    FOR    THE    WILL." 

general  inquiries  as  to  the  clay's  experiences,  try- 
ing to  make  her  voice  sound  free  and  social.  But 
Judge  Burnham  was  preoccupied.  He  set  Erskine 
down,  after  a  few  kisses,  and,  throwing  himself 
into  a  vacant  chair  across  the  room  from  his  wife, 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  formidable-looking  docu- 
ment, bristling  with  seals,  and  tossed  it  to  the 
child. 

"  Here,  my  boy,  is  a  new  plaything  for  you." 

"  A  plaything  !  Why,  papa,  what  is  it  for  ?  Is 
it  sealed  ?  Why,  no,  it  is  open,  and  it  is  all  written 
over.     How  funny  !     Is  it  a  great  big  letter  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  ;  in  law  we  call  it  a  deed." 

"And  what  is  a  deed  ?" 

Judge  Burnham  laughed,  and  glanced  at  his 
wife. 

"  It  means,  in  this  case,  a  transfer  of  property." 

"  Papa,  I  don't  understand." 

"  Don't  you  ?  That  is  surprising.  Let  me  see 
if  I  can  explain  ;  a  deed,  this  deed,  at  least,  is  to 
declare  that  I  am  no  longer  the  owner  of  a  certain 
piece  of  property  ;  that  I  have  given  up  all  right 
and  title  to  it  from  this  time  forth." 

"  Why  have  you  done  it,  papa  ?  What  property 
is  it,  and  who  has  bought  it  ? " 

"  For  good  and  sufficient  reasons  ;  I  am  to  an- 
swer your  questions  in  course,  am  I  rot  ?  You 
ask  three.  The  property  is  the  house  on  the 
corner  of  Markam  Square,  known  as  the  Shenan- 
doah ;    and  it    now  belongs   to   a  person  by  the 


"  THE    DEED    FOR    THE    WILL."  I49 

name  of  Erskine  Powers  Burnham.  Are  you  ac- 
quainted with  him  ?  " 

The  flush  on  the  child's  face  was  pretty  to  see  ; 
but  Judge  Burnham  was  looking  at  his  wife. 

"  Papa,  that  is  my  name  ;  my  whole  name  ;  but 
of  course  you  can't  mean  me  !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  —  why,  papa,  could  a  little  boy  have 
a  great  big  house  for  his  own  ?  Would  you  give 
it  to  me  ?  " 

"So  it  seems.  That  deed  says  so;  it  needs 
only  the  addition  of  your  mother's  name  to  make 
it  complete,  and  I  have  an  idea  that  she  can  be 
persuaded  to  sign  it." 

"  But,  papa,  what  will  I  do  with  it  ?  I'm  not  big 
enough,  am  I  ?  " 

"  You  will  be  ;  meantime,  you  can  consult  with 
your  mother  as  to  what  you  will,  or  will  not  have 
done  ;  and  you  might  retain  me  for  your  legal 
adviser  ;  I  will  act  in  that  capacity  to  the  best 
of  my  abilities,  under  your  and  your  mamma's 
directions. " 

"  Mamma,"  said  Erskine,  "  did  you  ever  hear  of 
anything  so  nice  ?     A  whole  big  house  !  " 

And  Ruth,  looking  past  the  boy,  said,  — 

"  Thank  you  ;  thank  you  more  than  words  can 
tell !  " 


I50  THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD. 

AFTER  that  there  was  a  lull  in  the  Burnham 
household.  The  various  excitements  of  the 
clays  just  passed  seemed  to  have  been  somewhat 
like  storms,  which  left  the  air  clearer. 

There  was,  about  this  time,  some  letting-up  in 
the  pressure  of  Judge  Burnham's  business  affairs, 
and  he  was  more  at  home,  and  exerted  himself  to 
be  entertaining  to  both  wife  and  son.  As  for 
Ruth,  she  made  many  concessions  in  the  way  of 
society  life  ;  went  with  her  husband  to  several 
state  dinners  that  bored  her  exceedingly,  and 
even  to  an  elegant  breakfast  or  two,  and  to  one 
massive  and  oppressive  evening  party,  where  the 
crowds  were  too  great  either  for  dancing  or  cards ; 
and  she  tormented  her  conscience,  when  once 
more  at  home,  by  asking  it  in  what  respect  the 
evening's  entertainments  had  been  lifted  higher 
because  of  the  absence  of  these  amusements,  or 
whether  it  would  not  have  been  better  to  have 
danced  than  to  have  indulged  in  some  of  the  chit- 
chat which  she  overheard  ;  that  old  pretense  of 


THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD.  151 

logic  which  she  was  too  tired,  just  then,  to  cast 
aside,  paralleled  in  folly  by  the  statement,  "  It  is 
better  to  lie  than  to  steal ;"  while  one  forgets  or 
ignores  the  fact  that  if  such  a  statement  could  be 
proven,  it  would  prove  nothing,  unless,  indeed, 
one  were  driven  of  necessity  to  a  choice  between 
those  two  employments. 

As  for  the  young  ladies,  their  life  flowed  on 
in  an  endless  stream  of  parties,  concerts,  private 
theatricals,  and  what  not.  Ruth  was  indebted 
to  them  for  some  letting-up  of  her  burdens.  It 
was  their  choice  not  to  have  the  elegant  entertain- 
ment which  was  being  planned,  until  toward  the 
close  of  the  season  ;  Seraph,  who  was  more  out- 
spoken on  many  subjects  than  her  sister,  announc- 
ing frankly  that  their  object  was  to  see  what  the 
Everetts  and  the  Wheelmans  were  going  to  do 
before  their  turn  came,  as  there  were  hints  in  the 
air  of  something  very  unique  from  those  quarters, 
and  they,  the  Misses  Burnham,  were  fully  resolved 
that  nothing  more  brilliant  than  their  own  party 
should  be  possible,  that  season. 

So  Ruth  breathed  more  freely  because  of  this 
respite,  and  kept  her  plans  concerning  the  gather- 
ing to  herself ;  time  enough  to  bring  them  to  the 
front,  to  be  perhaps  sharply  combated,  when  the 
occasion  for  action  was  at  hand.  Meantime,  in 
her  leisure  hours,  she  had  some  interests  more  to 
her  mind  than  society  furnished.  She  was  now  a 
member  of  the  Woman's   Christian  Temperance 


152  THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD. 

Union  ;  and  in  their  weekly  gathering  for  prayer 
she  found  herself  surrounded  once  more  by  an 
atmosphere  of  earnest  Christian  life,  that  rested 
and  encouraged  her.  She  had  been  so  long  among 
people  who  did  not  know  how  to  pray,  that  she  had 
almost  forgotten  how  busy  some  women  were  in 
their  Lord's  vineyard.  It  was  inexpressibly  com- 
forting to  be  greeted  as  one  of  their  number,  and 
to  hear  her  name  mentioned  gratefully  in  their 
prayers.  It  being  utterly  foreign  to  her  nature  to 
live  ever  so  slight  a  deception,  she  had  told  her 
husband,  at  the  first  opportunity,  of  her  joining 
herself  to  this  organization  ;  but  it  was  at  a  time 
when  he  was  undergoing  that  sharp  self-question- 
ing which  I  told  you  was  not  without  its  good 
results,  and  though  he  winced  a  little  at  the  infor- 
mation, and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  he 
had  supposed  such  organizations  were  not  in  ac- 
cordance with  her  taste,  yet,  on  the  whole,  he  bore 
the  news  very  well ;  there  were  no  crusades  in  the 
air  at  present,  and  although  it  was  never  safe  to 
prophesy  what  a  band  of  women  would  do,  still, 
when  it  came  to  the  point,  he  felt  that  he  could 
probably  trust  his  wife's  elegant,  high-bred  nature 
to  do  nothing  incongruous  ;  that  they  should  meet 
to  pray  each  week  certainly  could  not  harm  any- 
body, and,  while  it  was  peculiar,  of  course  there 
was  nothing  low  about  it ;  so,  if  they  enjoyed 
such  occupations,  why  should  they  not  indulge 
themselves  ? 


THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD.  1 53 

Judge  Burn  ham  realized  that  he  was  just  now 
in  high  favor  with  the  leading  spirits  of  this 
Union  ;  their  smiles  were  bright,  and  their  bows 
most  cordial,  when  they  met  him  on  the  street  ; 
two  or  three,  indeed,  had  offered  him  personal 
thanks  for  his  intervention  in  behalf  of  their 
homes  ;  and  though  he  had  gaily  disclaimed  any 
complicity  with  their  schemes,  and  assured  them 
that  he  was  no  longer  the  owner  of  the  Shenan- 
doah,  and  therefore  not  responsible  for  any  of  the 
whims  which  had  brought  about  the  present  state 
of  ill-humor  on  the  landlord's  part,  they  accepted 
this  as  a  graceful  joke,  and  were  grateful,  all  the 
same.  As  for  the  little  new  owner  of  the  Shen- 
andoah, it  had  not  taken  him  an  hour  to  learn  how 
to  "  instruct  his  legal  adviser"  in  such  a  thorough 
manner  that  the  guests  of  that  house  had  still  to 
look  elsewhere  for  their  choice  wines. 

Matters  generally  were  in  the  condition  of  lull 
which  I  have  described,  when  Judge  Burnham 
came  home  one  evening,  later  than  usual,  with 
the  announcement  that  he  must  leave,  by  the 
morning  train,  for  a  long,  and,  he  feared,  tedious 
business  trip,  that  would  detain  him  for  perhaps 
two  months.  He  spent  half  an  hour  in  trying  to 
convince  Ruth  that  she  could  accompany  him, 
leaving  Erskine  in  charge  of  the  young  ladies  ; 
but,  finding  her  steadily  determined  to  do  no  such 
thing,  he  abandoned  the  idea,  and  gave  himself  to 
the  business  of  making  ready. 


154  THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD. 

Frequent  journeys  had  been  common  experiences 
of  his  business  life  ;  but  this  was  a  more  extended 
absence  than  he  had  of  late  been  obliged  to  make, 
and  Ruth,  as  she  turned  from  the  platform  where, 
with  Erskine,  she  had  watched  until  the  smoke 
of  his  departing  train  was  lost  in  cloud,  felt  an 
unusual  sense  of  loneliness  ;  life  had  been  pleas- 
anter,  during  these  few  weeks,  than  in  a  long  time 
before;  it  seemed  hard  that  the  pleasantness  must 
be  so  soon  broken.  Erskine  begged  to  wait  and 
watch  the  east-bound  train,  which  was  even  then 
whistling  in  the  distance,  and  among  the  passengers 
who  hurried  from  it  his  mother  saw  young  Hamlin. 
His  California  trip  was  concluded,  then;  would  his 
intimacy  with  Minta  be  renewed,  she  wondered, 
or  had  she  already  found  some  greater  attraction  ? 
And  then  she  told  herself  resolutely  that  she 
need  not  worry  about  that  ;  she  had  done  what 
she  could  in  regard  to  it  ;  if  they  chose  to  be 
intimate  friends  now,  they  need  not  fear  inter- 
ference from  her. 

In  the  leisure  from  wifely  duties  which  now 
came  to  her,  she  found  herself  turning  more  and 
more  to  the  society  of  the  women  who  composed 
the  Christian  Temperance  Union.  The  prayer 
meeting,  never  very  largely  attended,  was  yet  the 
gathering  place  for  the  choice  spirits  of  the  Union, 
and  Ruth  found  herself  rested  and  uplifted  when- 
ever she  came  in  contact  with  them.  She  grew 
more  and  more  interested  in  their  plans  for  meet- 


THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD.  1 55 

ing  the  enemy,  and  began  to  take  an  earnest  part 
in  some  of  them.  She  might  never  have  made 
the  proposition,  but  she  warmly  seconded  it,  when 
one  of  the  ladies  said  she  thought  they  were 
strong  enough  to  sustain  a  gospel  temperance 
meeting  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Ruth  had  very 
little  idea  what  sort  of  gatherings  these  were, 
but  the  name  sounded  inviting.  The  first  meet- 
ing was  a  revelation  to  her.  People  came  whom 
she  thought  never  went  to  meeting ;  and  behaved, 
some  of  them,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  her 
half  feel  that  they  would  better  not  be  there. 
Wasn't  it  a  sort  of  sacrilege  to  permit  such  con- 
duct in  a  religious  gathering  ?  However,  she  rose 
above  this  ;  if  they  did  not  know  how  to  behave 
in  a  gospel  meeting,  or,  knowing,  did  not  care, 
surely  they  needed  the  enlightening  and  refining 
influences  of  the  gospel  in  an  unusual  degree. 
Besides,  some  of  them  sat  quite  still,  chewed  no 
tobacco,  and  listened,  especially  when  Mrs.  Bacon 
prayed,  as  though  there  was  a  new  power  about 
them,  whose  influence  they  felt.  Ruth  grew 
intensely  interested. 

Meantime,  home-life  went  on  much  as  usual. 
The  young  ladies  were  out  every  evening,  and 
kept  closely  to  their  rooms  during  the  day,  when 
not  riding  or  paying  visits;  so  that  the  lady  of  the 
house  saw  very  little  of  them.  She  was  relieved 
from  even  the  semblance  of  supervision  over  their 
goings    and    comings,  by   the   installment  of  one 


156  THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD. 

who  was  supposed  to  have  the  right  to  protect 
them. 

Mr.  Jerome  Satterley  deserves,  possibly,  more 
than  a  passing  introduction  ;  yet  I  find  that  I  have 
heretofore  not  remembered  to  give  him  even  that. 
You  are  to  understand,  then,  that  he  had,  quite 
recently,  come  into  the  family  life  as  Miss  Seraph's 
accepted  suitor.  Ruth,  when  informed  of  it,  had 
realized,  once  more,  that  she  certainly  was  not  the 
mother  of  these  girls  ;  had  she  been,  with  what  an 
utter  sinking  of  heart  would  she  have  given  one 
away  into  the  keeping  of  such  a  man  as  Jerome 
Satterley  !  As  it  was,  she  smiled  a  faint  smile, 
which  had  in  it  the  slightest  possible  curve  of 
the  upper  lip,  as  she  said  to  Judge  Burnham, 
"  People  must  choose  according  to  their  individual 
tastes,  I  suppose." 

Yet  Mr.  Jerome  Satterley,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
fastidious,  fashionable  world,  was  considered  un- 
exceptionable. He  belonged  to  one  of  the  old 
families  of  the  city,  had  a  reasonable  fortune  in 
his  own  right,  and  an  unlimited  one  which  would 
probably  come  to  him  in  the  future.  He  was 
elegant  in  dress  and  manner  ;  his  mustache  was 
carefully  waxed,  his  shapely  hands  were  cared  for 
tenderly,  and  he  knew  how  to  hold  a  lady's  fan 
or  parasol,  or  attend  her  to  the  piano,  or  the 
carriage,  or  the  refreshment  room  in  the  most 
approved  style.  In  fact,  the  girls  in  that  stage 
of  development,  when  such  phrases  are  used,  said 


THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD.  1 57 

his  manners  were  "  perfectly  lovely  !  "  Yet  Mrs. 
Burnham,  unreasonable  mortal,  regarded  him  with 
feelings  which  were  on  the  very  verge  of  dislike. 
He  had  been  well  enough  when  she  could  pass 
him,  along  with  others  of  his  clique,  with  a  cold 
bow,  or,  at  most,  a  dignified  "good-evening."  But 
to  be  on  such  terms  that  he  felt  privileged  to  toy 
with  the  spools  in  her  work-basket,  and  say  inane 
nothings  to  her,  while  he  waited  for  the  young 
ladies,  or  to  saunter  in  just  before  the  bell  rang, 
and  announce  that  he  had  come  to  stay  to  dinner, 
and  to  be  obliged  to  accord  to  him  not  only  the 
attention  of  a  polite  hostess,  but  a  semblance  of 
the  familiarity  which  his  position  in  the  family 
circle  demanded,  this  was,  to  the  last  degree,  an 
annoyance  to  Mrs.  Burnham. 

It  was  all  the  more  trying,  of  course,  because 
Mr.  Satterley  remained  in  blissful  ignorance  of  his 
inability  to  entertain  or  interest  his  prospective 
mother-in-law.  Truth  to  tell,  he  believed  himself 
to  be  irresistible  to  all  ladies,  of  whatever  age  and 
position.  He  considered  himself  posted  on  all 
subjects,  whether  in  art,  literature,  or  music  ;  and 
unhesitatingly  expressed  his  opinions,  with  an  air 
that  was  intended  to  quench  any  opposing  views, 
from  any  source  whatever.  Indeed,  so  entirely  sat- 
isfied was  he  with  his  own  wisdom,  that  I  do  not 
think  he  would  have  hesitated  to  dispute  the  most 
eminent  scientist  which  the  world  has  produced, 
if  he  ventured  a  scientific  statement  not  in  accord- 


158  THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD. 

ance  with  Mr.  Satterley's  preconceived  opinion, 
though  that  opinion  might  have  been  adopted 
because  of  a  chance  remark  that  he  had  heard 
some  one  make  at  the  breakfast-table  that  morn- 
ing. In  short,  Mr.  Satterley  had  an  abundance  of 
the  conceit  which  is  the  visible  sign  of  superfici- 
ality. You  will,  perhaps,  be  able  to  imagine  how 
trying,  to  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Burnham's  stamp,  was 
anything  like  familiarity  with  such  a  person.  She 
confessed  to  herself,  with  cheeks  that  burned  over 
the  thought,  that  such  things  had  power  to  annoy 
her  ;  that  when  he  began  with  an,  "  Oh  !  my  dear 
Mrs.  Burnham,  I  assure  you,  you  are  utterly  mis- 
taken," about  some  matter,  trivial  in  itself,  but 
about  which  common  sense  would  suppose  her  to 
be  better  posted  than  he  could  be,  she  felt,  some- 
times, like  throwing  her  book  at  him. 

Especially  was  it  trying  to  her  when  he  dis- 
coursed learnedly  on  religious  topics,  making  the 
wildest  statements,  which  were  without  even  the 
shadow  of  a  solid  foundation,  and  proceeding 
gravely  to  argue  about  them  as  the  accepted  stan- 
dards of  the  Church.  Of  course  he  was  a  young 
man,  holding  "  literal  views,"  and  "advanced  ideas," 
and  whatever  other  term  may  be  coined  to  dis- 
guise indifference  or  antagonism.  And  the  patro- 
nizing way  in  which  he  would  sometimes  say, 
"  Why,  my  dear  Mrs.  Burnham,  I  assure  you,  you 
are  too  cultivated  a  woman  to  hold  to  any  such 
ignorant  absurdities  as  are  involved  in  that  belief," 


THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD.  1 59 

made  Ruth  resolve,  more  than  once,  that  she 
would  make  no  reply  to  any  of  his  platitudes,  on 
any  subject  whatever. 

"  He  is  in  his  very  babyhood  as  regards  con- 
versation," she  said  to  herself,  with  curling  lip. 
"  Of  what  use  to  try  to  talk  with  such  a  person  ? " 
But  when  a  man  asks  a  point-blank  question,  it  is 
very  difficult  to  make  no  reply. 

It  was  just  after  one  of  these  emphatic  re- 
solves, that  Ruth  sat,  silent  and  annoyed,  listening 
to  Mr.  Satterley  and  Minta,  while  they  merrily 
chattered  over  a  sermom  that  they  had  heard 
preached  the  night  before  ;  Mr.  Satterley  was 
waiting  to  escort  Seraph  to  the  theater,  and  this 
was  Minta's  method  of  amusing  him  while  he 
waited.  The  text  of  the  sermon  had  been  quoted 
in  a  tone  which  would  indicate  that  that,  too,  was 
food  for  amusement  :  "  It  is  appointed  unto  all 
men  once  to  die,  and  after  that  the  judgment." 
After  much  merriment  at  the  preacher's  expense, 
Mr.  Satterley  attacked  Ruth's  grave  and  silent 
protest. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Burnham,  don't  you  think  such 
themes  are  entirely  obsolete,  in  these  days  ? " 

"What  themes?" 

Determined  not  to  discuss  this  question  with 
him,  the  only  way  seemed  to  be  to  ward  off  his 
questions. 

"  Why,  the  themes  which  have  to  do  with  old 
superstitious    ideas    of    the    judgment,    and    the 


l6o  THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD. 

attempt  to  frighten  people  into  some  sort  of  mys- 
terious preparation  for  the  same.  I  confess  that 
I  thought  all  such  ideas  were  obsolete  among  peo- 
ple of  culture." 

"  Do  you  think  that  death  is  obsolete,  Mr. 
Satterley  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  death,  why,  dear  madam,  that  is  but  a 
debt  which  is  paid  to  the  laws  of  nature." 

"Then  is  there  any  objection  to  learning  how 
to  pay  it  gracefully  ?  If  you  are  very  familiar 
with  death-beds,  you  must  be  aware  that  there  are 
different  ways  of  meeting  this  Law  ?  By  the  way, 
did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  it  was  a  somewhat 
bewildering  law  of  nature  which  takes  the  little 
child  to-day,  and  the  old  man  of  threescore  and 
ten  to-morrow  ;  and  it  may  be  a  young  woman,  or 
a  young  man  in  his  prime,  the  next  day  ?  I  could 
understand  it  better  as  a  law,  if  it  were  held  to 
times  and  seasons,  and  meddled  only  with  ripened 
grain." 

He  seemed  puzzled  by  her  reply,  quite  different 
from  what  he  had  expected,  and  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  during  which  Seraph  entered  in  all  the 
dazzle  of  full  dress. 

"  It  is  well  you  are  come,"  Minta  said  ;  "  mamma 
and  Jerome  are  quarreling  about  death  and  kindred 
cheerful  subjects  ;  there  is  no  telling  what  the  out- 
come would  have  been." 

"  It  is  suggestive,  to  say  the  least,  Seraph,  that 
your  dress  is  very  thin,  and  your  throat  even  more 


THE    WISDOM    OF    Til  13    WORLD.  l6l 

exposed  than  usual  ;  and  the  night  is  cold.  If  I 
might  be  allowed  to  advise,  I  should  say  you  ought 
to  wear  a  warmer  garment  than  that,  unless  you 
desire  to  court  the  presence  of  some  of  Death's 
attendants." 

"  Mamma,"  said  Minta,  with  mock  seriousness, 
"  that  is  almost  a  pun  ;  and  about  so  solemn  a  sub- 
ject as  death.      I  am  really  shocked  !  " 

Then  Seraph  :  "  A  warmer  dress  would  be 
more  comfortable,  I  admit,  but  the  trouble  is,  it 
isn't  fashionable  to  wear  high-necked  garments  in 
full  dress.  And  you  know,  mamma,  you  trained 
us  to  a  very  careful  attention  to  fashion  in  all  its 
details  ;  we  want  to  do  full  justice  to  your  early 
teachings.  As  Madame  Dupont  used  to  say,  '  A 
young  lady  who  is  not  au  fait  in  all  that  regards 
the  demands  of  fashion,  is  dead  already.'  " 

It  was  a  keen-pointed  arrow,  and  it  struck 
home.  Ruth  sat  and  thought  about  it  after  she 
was  left  alone,  as  she  had  sat  and  thought  many  a 
day  since  her  work  for  these  girls  began  to  develop 
in  ways  of  which  she  had  not  dreamed. 

She  had  been  careful  even  of  the  minutest  de- 
tails ;  she  had  labored  to  impress  upon  the  minds 
of  the  uncouth,  careless  girls  the  importance  of 
tints,  and  shades,  and  widths,  and  shapes,  and  per- 
fect fits.  How  could  she  know  that  they  would 
come  to  mean  so  much  more  to  these  girls  than 
she  had  meant  ?  so  much  more  than  they  had  ever 
meant  to  her? 


l62  THE    WISDOM    OF    THIS    WORLD. 

She  recalled  the  day  when  Susan,  having  done 
for  them  all  she  could,  the  question  of  boarding- 
school  was  being  discussed,  and  the  claims  of 
Madame  Dupont's  establishment  had  been  urged 
by  some  of  Ruth's  fashionable  friends.  Susan  had 
said  quietly,  — 

"  I  know  Madame  Dupont's  girls  ;  they  all  learn 
how  to  dance  and  dress." 

Then  she,  the  one  who  had  stood  in  the  place 
of  mother,  had  replied  :  — 

"  I  know  her  girls  have  the  name  of  being  super- 
ficial, but  that  depends,  after  all,  more  on  the  girls 
than  on  their  teachers.  And  really,  Susan,  it 
seems  absolutely  necessary  that  Seraph  and  Minta 
should  go  to  a  school  where  they  give  special 
attention  to  grace  of  movement  and  refinement  of 
manner  ;  they  are  so  deficient  in  these  respects. 
Beside,  they  teach  dancing  in  all  boarding-schools, 
I  suppose." 

Susan  had  said  no  more,  and  after  further  dis- 
cussion, the  choice  was  made  in  favor  of  Madame 
Dupont,  and  to  her  the  girls  were  sent  for  two 
years.  And  Madame  Dupont's  teachings  had 
been  :  "  A  young  lady  who  is  not  au  fait  in  all 
that  regards  the  demands  of  fashion,  is  dead 
already." 

Ruth's  memories  ended,  as  they  nearly  always 
did,  with  a  sigh. 


A  TROUBLESOME    "  YOUNG   PERSON."  163 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

A    TROUBLESOME    "YOUNG    PERSON." 

ALMOST  immediately  after  Seraph's  departure 
with  Mr.  Satterley,  Minta  had  followed,  with 
Mr.  Hamlin,  leaving  Mrs.  Burnham  to  the  troubled 
thought  of  which   I  told  you. 

Mingling  with  her  anxieties  was  this  one  which 
had  to  do  with  young  Hamlin.  It  was  all  very 
well  for  her  to  assure  herself  that  she  had  no 
responsibility  in  the  matter,  that  she  had  done  all 
she  could ;  the  fact  remained  that  people  were 
looking  to  her  to  interfere  in  this  intimacy,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  renewed  with  tenfold  vigor 
since  Mr.  Hamlin's  return. 

Marion  had  sent  her  a  little  note,  assuring  her 
that  the  very  worst  might  be  believed  of  the  stories 
which  were  afloat  concerning  him,  and  begging 
her  to  use  her  influence  with  Judge  Burnham 
before  it  should  be  too  late.  "  I  have  no  influ- 
ence, "  declared  Ruth  ;  she  was  quite  alone  when 
she  said  it,  and  would  not  have  repeated  it  in  any 
person's  hearing  for  the  world.  But  in  her  heart 
she  believed  it  to  be  painfully  true  ;  at  one  time  she 
resolved  to  inclose  Mrs.  Dennis's  note  in  her  next 


164  A    TROUBLESOME    "  YOUNG    PERSON." 

letter  to  her  husband,  without  comment  of  any 
sort ;  but  she  shrank  from  doing  this,  in  the  belief 
that  only  harm  could  come  of  it,  and  in  her  miser- 
able vacillation  as  to  what  was  best  to  do,  she  did 
nothing. 

Even  though  Mrs.  Stuart  Bacon  said  to  her, 
one  day, —  "Dear  Mrs.  Burnham,  do  you  know 
it  is  probable  that  that  young  Hamlin  may  be 
arrested  for  securing  money  under  false  pretenses  ? 
Isn't  it  sad,  and  his  family  connections  have  always 
been  so  eminently  respectable?"  Not  a  word 
said  Mrs.  Stuart  Bacon  about  the  young  man's 
intimacy  in  her  family,  but  Mrs.  Burnham's  cheeks 
glowed  over  the  thought  that  this,  too,  was  a  warning. 

It  was  in  the  evening  of  that  day  that  Mr. 
Satterley  said  to  her  :  "  I  doubt  whether  the  Judge, 
if  he  were  at  home,  would  care  to  have  Minta's 
name  coupled  with  young  Hamlin's  as  much  as  it 
is ;  there  are  some  ugly  stories  afloat  concerning 
him." 

"Then  why  do  you  not  warn  her?"  Mrs. 
Burnham  had  asked  irritably,  angry  with  herself 
that,  by  so  much,  she  must  seem  to  accept  his 
relations  with  the  family,  and  also  that  she  must, 
by  this,  admit  to  him  her  own  powerlessness. 
But  Mr.  Satterley  had  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
laughed,  and  asked  her  if  her  experiences  with 
Minta  led  her  to  believe  that  that  young  lady  was 
disposed  to  receive  warnings  very  graciously. 
And  then  they  had  been  interrupted. 


A    TROUBLESOME    "YOUNG    PERSON.  165 

These  two  last  hints  Mrs.  Burnham  did  report 
to  her  husband,  with  the  information  that  the 
young  man  was  becoming  marked  in  his  atten- 
tions ;  that  on  some  pretext  or  other  he  and  Minta 
were  together  nearly  every  evening,  and  that,  as 
he  was  well  aware,  there  was  nothing  which  she 
could  say  or  do  to  prevent  it.  This  letter  was 
sent  after  Judge  Burnham  had  been  absent  for  six 
weeks,  and  his  wife  hoped  that  the  hints  it  con- 
tained might  hasten  his  movements. 

Meantime,  on  the  evening  in  question,  she  was 
not  left  long  to  solitude.  Kate  came  to  her  in  the 
library  with  a  puzzled  air.  "  Mrs.  Burnham,  there 
is  a  young  person  in  the  hall  who  asked  to  see  you 
on  special  business,  and  inquired  particularly  if  you 
were  alone." 

"  What  sort  of  a  young  person,  Kate  ?  Some 
friend  of  the  young  ladies  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so,  ma'am  ;  oh  !  no,  I  am  sure  it 
isn't.  She  is  neat-looking,  and  civil  spoken  enough, 
but  she  doesn't  belong  to  them." 

"Then  I  suppose  it  is  some  one  in  search 
of  employment ;  you  might  take  her  name  and 
address,  and  tell  her  I  will  see  what  I  can  do  fur 
her,  though  I  am  not  on  that  committee." 

"If  you  please,  Mrs.  Burnham,  I  don't  think 
that  will  satisfy  her.  I  asked  her  if  there  was 
a  message,  and  if  it  was  something  I  could  do  for 
her,  and  not  trouble  you  ;  and  she  said,  O,  no  ! 
she  must  see  you,  and  see  you  quite  alone." 


l66  A    TROUBLESOME    "YOUNG    PERSON." 

"  Poor  thing !  it  must  be  some  one  in  distress. 
Let  her  come  to  the  library,  and  excuse  me  to  any 
callers  while  she  is  here." 

But  the  "young  person  "  who  presently  appeared 
before  her  did  not  look  in  the  least  as  Ruth  had 
immediately  planned  that  she  should.  She  was  a 
girl  of  perhaps  twenty,  with  a  face  which  under 
favorable  circumstances  might  have  been  beauti- 
ful ;  as  it  was,  framed  in  clustering,  natural  curls, 
and  set  off  by  eyes  which,  when  they  were  not 
red  with  recent  weeping,  must  have  been  very 
lovely,  she  was  strikingly  interesting.  Her  man- 
ner was  so  much  that  of  a  lady,  that  Ruth  half 
rose  to  meet  her,  with  the  ceremony  of  society  cus- 
toms, though  the  exceeding  plainness  of  the  young 
woman's  dress  showed  that  she  was  not  making  an 
ordinary  society  call. 

"  Mrs.  Burnham,  I  believe,"  she  said,  in  a  clear 
and  not  uncultured  voice. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  said  that  lady.  "  Be  seated, 
please.  You  have  the  advantage  of  me  ;  your  face 
is  familiar,  but  I  cannot  think  where  I  have  seen 
it." 

"  I  belong  at  the  lace  counter  in  Myers  & 
McAlpine's  store  ;   you  have  seen  me  there." 

The  tone  was  very  assured  ;  evidently  this  young 
woman  remembered  her  customer.  A  sudden  light 
appeared  on  Mrs.  Burnham's  face  ;  she  recalled  the 
pretty  young  girl  who  had  interested  her  by  courte- 
ous and  unselfish  ways. 


A    TROUBLESOME    "YOUNG    PERSON."  1 67 

"  Be  seated,"  she  said  again  cordially,  with  a 
wave  of  her  hand  toward  the  low  rocker,  near. 
"I  am  glad  you  have  come  to  see  me;  is  there 
any  way  in  which  I  can  serve  you?" 

"  Mrs.  Burnham,  may  I  ask  you  a  question  which 
may  seem  very  rude  ?     I  do  not  mean  it  for  that." 

"  The  poor  child  is  in  some  trouble,"  thought 
the  lady  ;  "  some  difficulty  between  her  employer 
and  herself,  probably,  in  which  she  thinks  I  can 
help  her.     Well,  if  I  can,  I  will." 

"  Ask  me  whatever  you  wish,"  she  said  aloud, 
"  and  I  will  answer  it  if  I  can,"  and  her  smile  was 
intended  to  be  reassuring.  But  the  question  was 
utterly  unlike  what  she  had  expected. 

"  Mrs.  Burnham,  is  the  taller  of  your  two 
daughters  engaged  to  be  married  to  Mr.  Jerome 
Sattcrley  ? "  Then  as  the  look  of  astonishment 
on  her  hostess'  face  deepened  into  displeasure, 
she  added  in  nervous  haste,  "  I  knew  you  would 
consider  me  a  bold,  insolent  girl,  but  I  have 
indeed  good  reasons  for  asking  ;  and  I  thought  I 
ought  to  come  to  you  rather  than  to  any  one  else." 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  could  give  me  your  reasons  for 
asking  so  strange  a  question  upon  a  subject  which 
c  nnot  in  any  way  concern  you,  I  might  be  able 
to  judge  you  more  leniently." 

Mrs.  Burnham's  voice  was  coldly  dignified  now  ; 
she  had  an  abundance  of  what,  for  want  of  a  better 
name,  we  may  call  family  pride  ;  but  the  girl  made 
haste  to  respond  :  — 


l68  A    TROUBLESOME    "YOUNG    PERSON." 

"  Oh !  indeed,  madam,  it  does  concern  me  most 
bitterly  ;  if  it  did  not,  I  could  not  have  come  to 
you  with  it.  If  you  will  answer  me  just  that 
question,  I  shall  know  better  how  to  tell  you  the 
story,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  say  that  I  ought  to 
have  asked  it." 

Mrs.  Burnham  was  puzzled,  but  the  girl  was 
evidently  intensely  in  earnest. 

"  We  do  not  usually  speak  of  such  family  matters, 
save  to  intimate  friends,"  she  said  ;  "  but  it  is  no 
secret,  I  believe,  and  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should 
hesitate  to  tell  you  that  Mr.  Satterley  and  Miss 
Seraph  Burnham  are  engaged  to  be  married." 

"Then,  madam,  I  ought  to  tell  you,  so  that  you, 
her  mother,  can  explain  to  her  that  he  is  not  to  be 
trusted." 

Even  at  such  a  time,  Ruth  could  hardly  restrain 
a  smile  of  sarcasm  over  the  thought  that  she  was 
supposed  by  any  one  to  be  the  person  to  advise 
with  and  care  for  Miss  Seraph  Burnham.  But 
nothing  of  this  thought  showed  in  her  words. 

"  Indeed  !  "  she  said,  with  lifted  eyebrows,  "  that 
is  a  serious  charge  ;  one  should  know  exceedingly 
well  what  one  is  saying  who  uses  such  language 
as  that." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  ;  I  know  only  too  well  what  I  am 
saying.  I  can  give  you  proof  of  it  ;  I  did  not 
come  here  because  I  wanted  to,  or  without  know- 
ing what  risk  to  my  own  reputation  I  ran  ;  but 
I  thought   I    could    talk  with  you,  because,  Mrs. 


A   TROUBLESOME    "YOUNG    PERSOx\."  169 

Burnham  —  "  She  broke  off  suddenly,  and  then, 
before  Ruth  could  speak,  began  again,  working  the 
fingers  of  her  ungloved  hands  together  nervously 
while  she  spoke  :  "  I  need  not  make  it  a  long  story  ; 
I  have  been  engaged  to  that  man  for  nearly  a  year, 
and  we  were  to  have  been  married  very  soon.  When 
I  tell  you  this,  and  then  tell  you  that  he  left  me 
without  a  word  of  explanation,  without  any  cause, 
so  far  as  I  know,  beyond  the  one  that  he  found  a 
face  that  suited  him  better,  do  you  not  think  I 
am  true  in  saying  that  your  daughter  cannot  trust 
him  ?  " 

"  Engaged  to  you  !  "  These  were  the  only  words 
Mrs.  Burnham  seemed  capable  of  speaking. 

"Yes'm  ;  engaged  to  me.  It  sounds  strangely 
to  you  ;  I  knew  it  would  ;  you  cannot  see  how  it  is 
possible  that  the  name  of  a  poor  girl  like  me,  a 
clerk  in  a  fancy  store,  should  have  the  right  to  be 
coupled  with  that  of  Jerome  Satterley.  I  do  not 
wonder  ;  I  used  to  think  so  myself ;  and  I  said  it 
was  because  he  was  unlike  other  men  —  nobler  and 
better.  Mrs.  Burnham,  you  will  want  proof  of 
my  story ;  I  can  give  it ;  look,  I  still  wear  the 
ring  he  gave  me.  I  am  a  poor  girl,  but  we  are 
respectable  ;  we  were  not  even  poor  always  ;  papa 
was  a  wealthy  merchant,  and  Mr.  Durand,  of  the 
firm  of  Durand  &  Parkman,  is  my  uncle  ;  mamma 
is  a  widow,  and  we  are  poor  enough  now.  I  have 
been  a  clerk  in  a  fancy  store  for  three  years,  help- 
ing to  support  her  and  the  younger  ones." 


I70    A  TROUBLESOME  "  YOUNG  PERSON. 

"And  you  met  Mr.  Satterley  where  ?  " 

"  In  New  York  ;  I  was  a  clerk  in  Jennings',  at 
the  silk  counter  ;  I  met  him  at  my  uncle's  here 
in  town  one  evening,  and  then,  when  he  came 
to  New  York,  he  called  on  me,  and  was  good  to 
mamma  and  the  children  ;  better  than  any  one  in 
the  world,  I  thought  ;  and  in  a  very  few  weeks  he 
told  me  that  he  had  come  to  New  York  on  purpose 
to  get  acquainted  with  me  ;  that  he  did  not  care 
how  poor  I  was,  that  he  had  money  enough  for 
both  of  us,  and  that  mamma  should  live  again  in 
the  style  to  which  she  had  been  used.  He  stayed 
in  New  York  for  four  months  ;  his  uncle,  Mr.  Tel- 
ford, is  the  president  of  the  Grand  Street  Bank, 
and  he  stayed  at  his  uncle's.  When  he  went 
away  he  was  to  come  again  in  the  spring  for  me ; 
I  can  show  you  many  letters  from  him  which  say 
so.  Oh  !  I  could  prove  it  by  witnesses  if  it  were 
necessary.  He  talked  frankly  to  mamma;  she  did 
not  trust  him,  and  he  took  it  hard,  and  so  did  I ; 
but  mamma  knew." 

She  drew  from  her  pocket  a  package  of  letters, 
carefully  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon,  and  began  with 
eager  haste  to  untie  them,  while  Mrs.  Burnham 
questioned  her  as  one  in  a  dream. 

"  Let  me  understand  ;  I  thought  you  were  a 
clerk  here  in  town." 

"  I  am,  madam  ;  I  have  been  here  two  months  ;  I 
secured  a  place  ;  Mr.  Jennings  recommended  me. 
I  had  not  heard  from  Mr.  Satterley  in  weeks,  and  I 


A  TROUBLESOME  " VOUXG  PERSON.      I/I 

was  so  miserable,  so  sure  that  he  was  sick,  or  that 
some  serious  trouble  had  come  upon  him,  that 
I  could  not  rest  without  trying  to  find  out  ;  so  I 
came  here  ;  and  I  have  found  out.  He  does  not 
know  that  I  am  in  the  city,  but  I  have  seen  him 
almost  every  day  for  two  months  ;  and  I  have 
watched  him  with  your  daughter  until  I  know  she 
is  going  through  just  what  I  have  been,  and  I  want 
to  warn  her.  Believe  me,  Mrs.  Burnham,  that  is 
all  I  want  ;  it  is  not  money  that  I  am  after.  I 
never  mean  to  bring  any  trial  for  breach  of  prom- 
ise, though  the  promises  were  plain  enough,  and 
often  repeated  ;  read  that,"  and  she  thrust  before 
her  hostess  an  open  letter,  which  at  first  glance 
could  be  recognized  as  Mr.  Satterley's  very  pecul- 
iar writing.  As  the  girl  said,  the  promises  were 
plain  enough,  and  repeated  oftener  than  for  an 
honorable  man  would  seem  to  have  been  neces- 
sary. Ruth,  as  she  read  it,  could  not  help  thinking 
aloud,  "  This  reads  like  a  man  who  is  not  accus- 
tomed to  being  believed." 

"  Does  it  ?  I  did  not  think  so  ;  and  I  believed 
in  him  utterly  ;  I  almost  quarreled  with  mamma 
because  she  could  not  fully  trust  him.  I  used  to 
lie  awake  nights,  thinking  how  we  —  he  and  I  — 
would  heap  beautiful  coals  of  fire  on  her  head.  He 
told  me  I  should  furnish  her  room  myself,  with  all 
the  elegances  that  money  could  buy,  and  that  I 
should  make  it  exactly  like  the  one  she  used  to 
have,  if  I  chose." 


172  A    TROUBLESOME    "YOUNG    PERSON. 

What  an  evening  it  was  !  The  door-bell  ransr 
several  times,  and  Kate  came  once  with  a  message 
from  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  Union,  who  was  im- 
portunate;  but  Ruth  waved  her  imperiously  away, 
with  the  assurance  that  she  could  see  nobody,  no 
matter  whom.  Late  into  the  evening  the  talk 
went  on.  Proof  piled  on  proof,  incontestable,  that 
the  elegant  Mr.  Satterley,  with  the  date  of  his 
wedding  day  actually  set,  had  turned  in  swiftness 
and  silence  away  from  his  deliberately  chosen 
bride,  and  set  himself  vigorously  to  wooing  another. 

"  But  I  do  not  understand,"  Mrs.  Burnham  said 
at  last  ;  "  I  do  not  see  how  he  expects  to  manage ; 
he  must  know  that  you  will  hear  of  it,  and  that  you 
can  make  him  serious  trouble.  Why  does  he  not 
at  least  try  to  win  you  to  silence  ?  " 

A  deep  blush  overspread  the  young  girl's  hitherto 
pale  face,  and  she  shook  her  head,  as  she  spoke 
quickly  :  — 

"  He  knows  that  I  will  not  give  him  any  trouble 
in  the  way  you  mean  ;  he  trusts  me  as  fully  as  I 
trusted  him.  If  I  cannot  respect  him,  I  want 
nothing  of  him.  But  could  I  let  him  deceive  an- 
other as  he  has  me  ?  In  the  sight  of  God,  Mrs. 
Burnham,  all  I  want  is  to  save  her  ;  I  ought  to 
have  spoken  before,  but  I  could  not  believe  it  pos- 
sible. He  may  be  in  earnest  this  time,  but  what 
proof  can  he  give  her  that  he  has  not  given  me  ? " 

Over  another  question  of  her  visitor,  Ruth  felt 
the  blood  roll  in  waves  up  to  her  very  forehead. 


A    TROUBLESOME    "YOUNG    PERSON.  1 73 

"  Mrs.  Burnham,  do  you  think  a  person  who  is 
a  Christian  ought  to  marry  one  who  is  not  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Judge  Burnham's  wife  steadily,  and 
without  hesitancy  ;  and  then  that  tell-tale  blood 
had  mantled  her  face. 

"  Mamma  thinks  the  same,"  said  the  unsuspect- 
ing girl,  intent  only  on  her  own  story.  "  And,  oh  ! 
I  thought  so,  too,  once,  but  I  gave  it  up  ;  I  was  so 
sure  I  could  win  him  to  Christ,  and  here  I  could 
not  even  "  — 

She  stopped  abruptly,  as  she  had  frequently 
during  the  evening.  There  seemed  to  be  some 
sentences  that  she  did  not  trust  herself  to  finish. 
The  voice  was  lower  when  she  commenced  again,  — 

"  Sometimes  I  have  thought  it  was  God's  pun- 
ishment upon  me,  for  putting  another  in  the  place 
of  him." 

"  It  is  God's  love  to  you,  my  friend,  in  saving 
you  from  a  miserable  life."  The  words  were  im- 
pulsive, but  they  came  from  the  heart's  depths. 

She  sat  and  thought  long  about  it  all,  after  her 
guest  had  gone  ;  sat  even  until  she  heard  the 
merry  voices  of  the  returning  young  ladies  and 
their  attendants.  Then  she  gathered  in  haste 
the  work  and  the  magazine  that  had  long  before 
dropped  from  her  hands,  and  made  a  retreat  to  the 
privacy  of  her  own  room.  She  had  much  to  think 
about.  What  part  was  she  to  play  in  this  pitiful 
tragedy  of  human  life  which  had  been  so  unex- 
pectedly thrust  in  upon  her  ? 


174  A    TROUBLESOME    "  YOUNG    PERSON." 

She  had  promised  the  poor  little  clerk  at  the 
lace  counter  that  she  would  do  what  she  could 
toward  warning,  or,  as  she  phrased  it,  "  saving  " 
her  daughter  Seraph. 

Her  daughter  !  What  a  miserable  mockery  of 
words !  If  she  were  in  very  truth  her  daughter, 
if  her  spirit  burned  within  her,  would  not  the  girl 
recoil  in  horror  from  a  life  so  utterly  false  as  this  ? 
Yet  did  she  expect  it  of  her  ? 

She  sat  late  into  the  night,  trying  to  plan  how  it 
would  all  be  ;  what  she  should  say  to  Seraph,  and 
also,  more  important,  what  Seraph  would  say  to 
her,  and  what  the  outcome  of  it  all  would  be. 

Would  it  humiliate  the  girl  more,  she  wondered, 
to  have  the  knowledge  of  her  promised  husband's 
false  nature  come  through  her  lips  ?  Yet  who  could 
tell  it  if  she  did  not  ?  The  father  was  away,  and 
there  was  certainly  need  for  haste,  if  anything  was 
to  be  accomplished.  Though  what  could  she  hope 
to  accomplish  ?  Yet  in  the  name  of  their  common 
womanhood  she  could  not  let  this  one,  to  whom 
she  stood  before  the  world  in  the  place  of  mother, 
go  on  in  ignorance  of  the  hollowness  of  the  staff 
she  was  trying  to  lean  upon. 

Ruth  pitied  her,  and  pitied  herself  for  the  part 
she  was  to  bear  in  the  drama,  and  fell  into  a 
troubled  sleep  at  last,  still  uncertain  how  to  per- 
form her  task. 

Still  uncertain,  in  fact,  the  next  morning,  when 
opportunely  alone  with  Seraph  soon  after  break- 


A    TROUBLESOME    "YOUNG    TERSON.  175 

fast,  and  mindful  of  her  promise  to  let  not  another 
day  pass  without  warning  her,  she  began  with  a 
hurried  "  Seraph,"  spoken  in  a  tone  of  such  evi- 
dent perturbation  as  to  cause  that  young  lady  to 
turn  from  the  flowers  she  was  arranging,  and  an- 
swer a  wondering  and  inquiring,  "  Well  ?  " 

And  then  Ruth  wished  she  had  not  spoken,  and 
knew  not  what  words  to  out  next. 


176  "  ALL    COME  !  " 


CHAPTER   XV. 

"ALL    COME  !" 

DO  you  know  a  young  girl  by  the  name  of 
Hollister  —  Estelle  Hollister?" 

"  Never  heard  of  her."  The  reply  was  made  in 
that  tone  of  easy  indifference  which  says,  "She 
is  nothing  to  me,  and  I  have  no  interest  whatever 
in  her  story." 

"  She  is  in  charge  of  the  lace  counter  at  Myers 
&  McAlpine's." 

"Oh!  a  pretty  girl,  with  yellow-brown  hair? 
Yes,  I  noticed  her  ;  I  remember  somebody  called 
her  Estelle ;  she  admires  me,  I  fancy,"  with  a 
little  half-conscious  laugh  at  this  tribute  to  her 
beauty ;  "  she  waits  on  me  as  though  I  were  a 
queen." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  Mr.  Satterley  mention  her  ?  " 

"Jerome?  Certainly  not.  He  has  no  special 
interest  in  pretty  girls  in  the  abstract,  I  believe." 
Again  that  indifferent  tone  and  half-conscious 
laugh. 

"  He  knows  her,  "  said  Mrs.  Burnham,  and  the 
tone  was  so  significant  as  to  cause  an  angry  flush 


"ALL    COME  !  "  I77 

on  Seraph's  face,  and  a  haughty  inflection  in  her 
voice  as  she  said,  — 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

It  may  not  have  been  a  wise  way  of  commenc- 
ing;  Mrs.  Burnham,  as  she  thought  it  over  after- 
ward, felt  sure  that  it  was  not,  but  at  all  events 
the  subject  was  fairly  opened  ;  there  could  be  no 
waiting  now  for  a  more  favorable  time.  She  went 
through  the  story  steadily,  with  admirable  brevity, 
and  yet  with  telling  distinctness  ;  she  had  studied 
the  points  which  could  not  be  challenged,  and 
presented  them  clearly,  yet  with  as  few  words  as 
possible  ;  if  she  had  been  a  very  tender,  real 
mother,  she  might  have  made  the  statement  more 
tenderly  ;  with  pitiful,  loving  words  slipped  in  be- 
tween the  wounds  she  felt  obliged  to  make,  but 
she  could  hardly  have  done  it  more  skillfully  with 
a  view  to  letting  her  victim  know  the  truth, 
with  as  little  torturous  circumlocution  as  possible. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  great  pity  for  the  girl  to 
whom  she  was  speaking  ;  if  she  really  loved  the 
man,  it  would  be  a  terrible  blow  ;  in  any  case,  it 
would  be  galling  to  her  pride. 

She  did  not  know  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry 
that  they  were  interrupted  by  the  sudden  entrance 
of  Minta,  before  there  was  opportunity  for  a  word 
in  reply.  Then  Ruth  went  away  to  her  own  room 
to  think  it  over,  and  wonder  what  sort  of  an  explo- 
sion she  had  set  in  train.  She  found  that  her 
knowledge  of  Seraph  was  not  sufficient  for  her  to 


178  "  ALL    COME  !  " 

determine  with  any  feeling  of  certainty  what  her 
course  would  be.  That  she  was  capable  of  being 
very  angry  was  unquestionable,  but  on  whom  her 
anger  would  be  visited,  was  a  matter  of  doubt,  and 
more  or  less  anxiety.  It  was,  therefore,  in  the 
expectation  of  some  sort  of  moral  upheaval  that 
Mrs.  Burnham  passed  the  remainder  of  the  day ; 
and  she  might  be  said  to  be  prepared  for  almost 
anything  when  Seraph's  voice  held  her  in  the 
library  that  evening  just  before  dinner. 

"  Mamma,  we  were  interrupted  in  the  midst  of 
your  exciting  tale  this  morning.  I  was  sorry,  for 
I  wanted  to  ask  you  whether  you  intended  to  take 
Jerome  into  your  confidence,  also." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  was  Ruth's  cold 
reply ;  the  extreme  flippancy  of  the  young  lady's 
words  and  manner  led  her  to  expect  nothing  but 
rudeness  from  this  interview. 

"Why,  I  thought  my  language  was  plain.  I 
mean,  do  you  intend  to  tell  him  about  the  young 
woman  with  whom  you  are  on  confidential  terms, 
or  have  you  engaged  to  enlighten  only  me  ?  " 

"  Do  not  you  intend  to  tell  him  ?  " 

"  I  !  why  should  I  ?  My  lady  did  not  take 
refuge  with  me ;  it  was  you  she  honored  with  her 
confidence." 

"  Seraph,  there  is  really  no  reason  why  you 
should  speak  of  the  subject  in  this  manner.  I 
told  you  a  sorrowful  story,  this  morning,  because 
I  thought  it  must  told  ;  and  I  did  it  with  as  little 


"  ALL    COME  !  "  I79 

pain  to  you  as  I  knew  how  ;  and  only  because, 
judging  you  as  one  woman  of  honor  judges  another, 
I  felt  it  was  your  right  to  know  it." 

"And  what  do  you  expect  me  to  do  ?" 
"  I  do  not  presume  to  dictate,  or  even  advise  ;  I 
promised  the  poor  girl  that  I  would  warn  you,  and, 
as  well  as  I  knew  how,  I  have  done  so  ;  there  my 
responsibility  ceases.  You  will  do,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  what  you  think  you  ought.  If  I  thought  I 
would  be  understood,  I  would  express  to  you  what 
I  certainly  feel  —  my  deep  pain  that  you  should 
have  been  so  deceived  ;  but  as  it  is  "  — 

Seraph  interrupted  her  hurriedly.  "  But  as  it  is, 
there  is  no  need  for  anything  of  that  sort ;  I  am 
sure  I  feel  grateful  for  your  sympathy,  but  I  think 
it  misplaced  ;  you  and  I  look  at  a  great  many 
things  from  different  standpoints ;  this  is  one  of 
them.  I  do  not  think  Jerome  is  the  worst  man  in 
the  world  merely  because  he  has  had  a  little  flirta- 
tion with  a  shop  girl ;  I  do  not  suppose  it  is  by 
any  means  so  important  a  matter  as  she  has  made 
you  believe.  Girls  of  that  stamp  always  think  a 
gentleman  wants  to  marry  them  if  he  lifts  his 
hat  to  them  in  passing  ;  in  any  case,  it  is  all  over 
now,  and  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  make  him  and 
myself  uncomfortable  by  mentioning  it.  You  say 
the  girl  doesn't  want  money,  but  a  handsome 
present  will  go  far  toward  making  life  brighter  to 
her,  I  have  no  doubt,  and  one  of  these  days  I  will 
see  that  she  receives  it.      I  tell  you  this  that  you 


ISO  "ALL    COME  !  " 

may  see  I  can  be  sympathetic  as  well  as  yourself. 
What  I  want  to  say  to  you  is,  that  I  would 
prefer  your  not  mentioning  the  matter,  even  to 
papa  ;  I  don't  see  any  occasion  ;  if  the  silly  girl 
had  come  to  me  with  her  complaints,  it  would 
have  been  much  more  sensible  in  her,  I  think." 

What  was  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Burnham's  character 
to  reply  to  a  woman  of  such  a  character  as  this  ? 
She  stood  before  her  dismayed  ;  she  really  had 
not  supposed  that  society  could  build  in  a  few 
short  years  so  fair  and  false  a  structure. 

"  I  have  nothing  further  to  say,'"  she  replied  at 
last  ;  "  I  did  not  promise  to  tell  the  shameful  story 
to  any  one  but  you  ;  whether  I  ought  to  do  any- 
thing more  I  have  not  yet  decided;  it  is  not  so 
pleasant  a  theme  that  I  shall  like  to  dwell  upon  it. 
I  will  only  remind  you  that  it  may  not  be  wise  to 
keep  your  father  in  ignorance  of  it,  in  view  of 
your  approaching  marriage ;  the  poor  girl  may 
have  friends  who  will  not  be  so  considerate  as 
herself,  and  your  father's  services  as  a  lawyer  may 
be  needed,  in  which  case  it  might  be  well  to  have 
him  forewarned." 

A  swift  look  of  mingled  pain  and  anger  was 
the  only  reply  that  Seraph  had  opportunity  to 
make  to  this,  for  her  mother  passed  her  -and 
went  immediately  to  the  dining-room.  Dinner 
was  served  at  once,  and  Jerome  Satterley  was 
one  of  the  family  party,  Seraph  chatting  with  him 
as  gaily  as  usual,  while  the  woman  who  had  been 


"ALL    COME  !  "  l8l 

acquainted  with  the  fashionable  world  for  years 
found  herself  too  shaken,  and  distressed,  and  angry, 
to  talk  with  any  one.  The  only  comment  on  this 
was  made  by  Mr.  Satterley  as  the  door  closed  be- 
tween them,  while  Seraph  and  he  made  their  way 
to  the  music  room.  "What  is  the  matter  with 
Mrs.  Judge?  Have  I  displeased  her  more  than 
usual,  in  any  way  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  the  word 
1  glum  '  would  about  fit  her  disposition  to-night." 
And  Seraph's  gay,  sweet  laugh  rang  out  as  she 
said:  —  "There's  no  accounting  for  mamma's 
moods,  as  you  will  learn  when  you  come  to  know 
her  better." 

Mrs.  Burnham  did  not  know  what  Seraph  did, 
but  for  herself  she  knew  she  avoided  even  the 
street  on  which  Myers  &  McAlpine's  store  was 
located  ;  it  made  her  heart  throb  with  indignant 
pain  even  to  think  of  the  sorrows  and  wrongs  of 
the  fatherless  young  girl  who  toiled  there. 

And  the  days  went  by,  and  still  Judge  Burnham 
did  not  return.  Ruth  did  not  even  know  whether 
or  not  he  received  her  words  of  warning  ;  he  was 
constantly  moving  from  point  to  point,  and  his 
letters  had  great  difficulty  in  finding  him  ;  he 
wrote  frequently,  always  with  the  same  story  — 
unexpected  delay  and  the  hope  that  his  exile  was 
now  nearly  over.  Matters  were  in  this  state  on  a 
certain  Sabbath  afternoon  in  March,  when  Ruth 
1<  ft  her  home  to  go  to  the  "  gospel  temperance 
meeting"   in  a  state  of   great  perturbation.     The 


1 82  "all  come  !  " 

reason  for  this  was  twofold.  In  the  first  place, 
much  to  her  own  astonishment,  she  had  been  per- 
suaded into  allowing  herself  to  be  named  as  leader 
of  the  meeting.  You  who  were  well  acquainted 
with  Ruth  Erskine  will  remember  that  this  would 
have  been  a  startling  innovation  to  her,  even  in 
her  girlhood,  and  the  matron  had  not  developed 
in  those  directions.  It  had  been  a  very  great  trial 
to  her  to  consent  to  taking  her  turn  with  the 
others ;  rather,  the  few  among  the  others  who 
were  willing  to  share  this  responsibility.  Still, 
she  was  not  lacking  in  moral  courage,  you  will 
remember,  and  her  conscience,  being  closely  ques- 
tioned, could  give  her  no  sufficient  reason  why  she 
should  refuse  to  share  in  a  work  whose  object  she 
approved.  Once  pledged,  she  made  what  prepara- 
tion she  could  for  the  formidable  work. 

The  second  source  of  anxiety  she  tried  hard  to 
hold  in  the  background  until  the  hour  of  her  trial 
should  be  over.  It  grew  out  of  a  briefly-worded, 
bewildering  sort  of  note,  from  Marion,  brought 
her  by  a  special  messenger,  but  an  hour  before. 

Dear  Ruth  : 

Forgive  ray  importunity,  but  the  time  has  come  when  you  must 
really  interfere  in  regard  to  that  intimacy,  even  to  the  extent  of 
issuing  commands  if  need  be,  until  her  father  returns.  I  will  not 
trust  myself  to  be  more  explicit  on  paper,  but  Mr.  Dennis  wishes 
me  to  assure  you  from  him  that  he  believes  it  will  be  a  matter  of 
lifelong  regret  with  you  if  you  do  not  protect  her  now.  Do  not 
delay  another  day. 

In  great  haste, 

Marion. 


"all  come  !  "  183 

"  Protect  her  !  "  As  if  she  did  not  know  that 
Minta  would  tolerate  no  attempt  at  protection  from 
her!  What  was  she  to  do?  If  Judge  Burnham 
were  only  at  home  !  If  Mr.  Satterley  were  —  but 
of  what  use  to  mention  him  !  Ruth  had  only  con- 
tempt for  him.  But  it  was  the  hour  for  the  meet- 
ing, and  she  must  put  this  thing  away  for  a  little 
time  longer ;  when  the  strain  of  the  next  two 
hours  was  over,  she  would   have  time  to  think. 

As  she  hurried  along  the  street,  a  little  late,  and 
much  annoyed  thereat,  her  eye  fell  upon  some- 
thing that  caused  her  added  annoyance.  The 
committee  of  arrangements  were  but  mortals,  and, 
therefore,  mistakes  of  judgment,  as  well  as  of  taste, 
ought  to  have  been  pardonable ;  but  Ruth  was  in 
no  mood  to  grant  pardon  as  there  flamed  at  her 
from  the  lamp-post,  in  what  seemed  to  her  pain- 
fully conspicuous  letters,  the  announcement  : 

GOSPEL  TEMPERANCE  MEETING 

AT  BURNHAM  HALL. 
TIME,  3  O'CLOCK  SHARP. 

ALL   COME! 

MRS.    JUDGE   BURNHAM    WILL    PRESIDE. 

To  Ruth's  excited  fancy,  it  seemed  as  though 
her  name  was  shouted  at  her  by  those  great 
staring  letters.  From  every  lamp-post  it  flamed 
out.  This  was  entirely  an  innovation  ;  no  leader's 
name   had   been  announced  before.     Why  should 


184  "  ALL    COME  !  " 

those  hateful  capitals  be  forced  upon  her  ?  On 
the  whole,  she  reached  the  hall  in  a  very  excited 
frame  of  mind,  and  it  took  all  the  influence  of  the 
opening  hymns  and  prayer  to  reduce  her  to  some- 
thing like  composure.  The  hall  was  unusually 
full ;  Ruth  thought  there  were  more  men  present 
than  she  had  ever  seen  there  before.  Her  voice 
sounded  strangely  to  herself  as  she  read  the  Bible 
verses  which  she  had  selected  as  the  foundation  of 
her  talk,  but  the  listeners,  to  judge  by  the  entirely 
quiet,  respectful  attention  they  gave  her,  were  satis- 
fied. It  was  a  novel  situation  ;  at  first  the  leader 
seemed  able  to  think  only  of  the  loud  beating  of 
her  own  heart,  and,  while  she  was  reading  the  last 
verse  but  one  of  her  selections,  she  realized  that 
she  could  not  recall  a  single  word  of  the  sentences 
that  she  had  prepared  for  her  introduction  ;  but 
the  very  last  verse  took  hold  upon  her  thoughts  ; 
stilled  her  wild  excitement,  helped  her  to  feel  that 
she  was  permitted  to  be  God's  messenger  to  these 
men  and  women,  many  of  whom  showed  plainly 
by  their  faces  that  they  knew  him  not.  "  Thus 
saith  the  Lord,  Stand  in  the  court  of  the  Lord's 
house,  and  speak  unto  all  the  cities  of  Judah, 
that  come  to  worship  in  the  Lord's  house,  all 
the  words  that  I  command  thee  to  speak  unto 
them  ;  diminish  not  a  word  :  if  so  be  they  will 
hearken,  and  turn  every  man  from  his  evil  way 
.  .  .  and  thou  shalt  say  unto  them,  Thus  saith 
the  Lord." 


u 


ALL    COME  !  "  I85 


The  wonder  and  solemnity  of  the  fact  that  God 
had  given  her  a  message  to  deliver  here,  held  her 
by  its  power.  The  one  thing  which  she  now 
desired,  was  to  speak  just  the  words  which  he 
commanded.  Her  language  was  very  simple.  She 
not  only  could  not  recall  the  carefully-prepared 
phrases  which  she  had  meant  to  use,  but  she 
ceased  to  try.  Out  of  the  fullness  of  her  con- 
viction that  they  were  men  and  women  who 
needed  God,  and  that  he  was  waiting  to  receive 
them,  she  spoke.  The  room  was  very  still.  The 
women  who  were  with  her  on  the  platform  listened 
with  a  sort  of  hushed  awe.  They  forgot  to  be 
nervous  ;  to  wonder  whether  that  young  man  in  the 
corner  who  was  chewing  tobacco,  meant  mischief  ; 
to  whisper  together  as  to  what  had  better  be  sung 
when  the  speaker  was  through,  or  to  do  any  of  the 
little  restless  things  that  in  their  nervous  anxiety 
they  were  generally  led  into  doing.  Suddenly, 
Ruth,  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  her  whole  heart, 
she  thought,  centered  in  a  desire  to  lead  some  one 
to  feel  his  need  of  a  Saviour,  came  to  a  dead  pause. 
Every  vestige  of  color  fled  from  her  face,  leaving 
her  white  and  motionless,  like  a  marble  statue. 
Mrs.  Stuart  Bacon  half  rose  in  alarm.  Was  she 
going  to  faint  ?  Oh!  what  would  they  do  ?  Down 
near  the  door,  or,  at  least,  not  more  than  three  seats 
from  the  door,  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  long  hall, 
seated  between  certain  rough -looking  men  who  had 
crowded  in  late,  was  Judge  Burnham.     Mrs.  Stuart 


1 86  "ALL    COME  !  " 

Bacon  had  seen  him  when  he  came  in.  She  had 
nudged  Mrs.  Parkman's  elbow,  while  Ruth  was 
reading  those  Bible  verses,  and  had  whispered 
that  she  did  not  know  Judge  Burnham  had  re- 
turned, and  she  must  say  it  was  a  very  beautiful 
tribute  to  his  wife's  influence,  for  him  to  lay  aside 
his  prejudices  sufficiently  to  come  and  hear  her. 
But  Ruth  had  not  seen  him  until  that  supreme 
moment,  when  the  sight  of  him  took  from  her  the 
words  she  was  about  to  speak,  and  brought  her 
with  a  rude  shock  back  to  earth  again.  It  all 
passed  in  a  moment,  and  Mrs.  Bacon  sank  back  in 
her  chair  with  a  relieved  sigh.  Ruth  had  forgotten 
the  sentence  she  was  uttering.  Never  mind  ;  that 
strange  power  as  of  God  took  hold  of  her  again  ; 
said  to  her,  speaking  low,  so  no  ear  but  hers  could 
hear  :  — 

"  You  are  God's  messenger  ;  you  are  to  speak 
to  these  men  all  that  God  has  commanded  you  ; 
you  are  to  diminish  nothing  ;  you  may  never  have 
another  opportunity.  What  human  being  ought 
to  influence  you  now?  Say  unto  them,  'Thus 
saith  the  Lord.'  " 

It  takes  much  longer  to  tell  it  than  it  did  to 
think  it.  Before  some  had  even  noticed  the  hesi- 
tation, the  clear,  cultured  voice  went  on  :  — 

"  Young  man,  God  is  speaking  to  you  ;  he  wants 
you  ;  wants  you  to-day  ;  wants  your  brains,  and 
your  strength,  and  your  influence,  for  himself. 
Why  do  you  wait  ?     You  know  you  need  him." 


"ALL    COME  !"  187 

There  was  a  movement  on  the  very  last  seat ;  a 
sort  of  undertone  disturbance  ;  two  young  men 
pushing  each  other,  chuckling,  speaking  almost 
aloud  in  their  amusement.  Judge  Burnham  arose, 
went  with  a  light  tread  over  to  the  last  seat,  and 
sat  clown  close  beside  the  rougher  of  the  two 
young  men.  The  disturbance  ceased.  The  clear 
voice  went  on,  gathering  firmness.  The  move- 
ment had  not  disturbed  her,  neither  had  the  mut- 
tering: of  the  two  bent  on  mischief.  She  had  for 
the  time  being  gotten  above  it  all.  The  women 
seated  on  the  platform  looked  at  one  another,  and 
nodded  in  satisfaction.  They  could  see  each 
other's  thoughts  :  "  It  was  splendid  in  Judge  Burn- 
ham  to  do  that  ;  he  is  not  going  to  have  his  wife 
treated  rudely."  They  should  not  wonder  if  he 
could  be  won  into  coming  every  Sabbath.  What 
a  stroke  of  genius  it  was  to  have  secured  Mrs. 
Burnham  as  a  co-laborer  !  Besides,  who  had  im- 
agined that  she  could  talk  like  this  ? 

So  much  we  know  about  people's  hearts.  Judge 
Burnham  was  never  in  a  more  rebellious  turmoil 
against  his  surroundings  and  environments  than 
at  that  moment.  He  could  have  told  them  a  curi- 
ous story  about  his  coming  to  that  meeting. 


l88        ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

ON  THE  MOUNT  AND  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

IT  was  Ruth's  own  letter  of  warning  reaching 
him  at  a  late  hour  on  Saturday,  having  been 
sent  after  him  from  various  post-offices  where  he 
had  left  addresses,  that  finally  brought  him  home 
on  the  Sunday  express,  instead  of  stopping  off  at 
Shoreham  and  waiting  for  the  midnight  train,  as 
he  had  planned. 

A  few  hours,  more  or  less,  might  not  make  any 
difference  ;  but  then  possibly  it  might ;  and  being 
a  business  man,  accustomed  to  weighing  with 
scales  that  were  turned  sometimes  by  very  slight 
causes,  he  resolved  to  postpone  his  business  at 
Shoreham  and  go  home  at  once. 

On  the  journey  he  had  been  more  or  less  an- 
noyed ;  several  political  discussions  with  other 
Sunday  travelers  had  ruffled  him  considerably  ; 
then  he  had  been  obliged  to 'listen  to  and  explain 
away  a  very  much  distorted  edition  of  the  story 
connected  with  the  Shenandoah  and  its  change  of 
owners.  Very  wild,  and  what  he  considered  very 
silly,  reports  about  his  having  changed  his  politi- 


ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY.  1 89 

cal  basis  came  to  his  ears,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
refuse  congratulations  from  one  side,  and  smooth 
the  feeling's  of  a  ruffled  constituent  on  the  other. 
Altogether,  when  he  stepped  from  the  platform 
of  the  train  at  his  own  station  he  was  in  the  mood 
to  wish  that  he  had  not  been  such  a  fool  as  to 
cater  to  his  wife's  whims,  and  so  make  all  this  talk 
about  the  Shenandoah  ;  and  to  wish  especially 
that  he  had  never  heard  of  such  an  organization 
as  the  Woman's  Christian  Temperance  Union. 

Imagine  him,  then,  walking  rapidly  up  town, 
making  an  effort  to  throw  off  his  ill  humor  and  be 
ready  to  greet  his  family  graciously,  confronted  by 
those  flaming  letters  on  the  lamp  posts,  the  bulletin 
boards,  in  every  conspicuous  place  possible  :  — 

GOSPEL  TEMPERANCE  MEETING 

AT  BURNHAM  HALL. 
TIME,    3  O'CLOCK  SHARP. 

ALL    COME! 

"They  even  have  my  name  dragged  in,  because 
I  happen  to  own  the  building.  I'll  have  that  hall 
named  something  the  first  thing  I  do  to-morrow," 
muttered  the  irate  man;  and  then  he  rubbed  his 
eyes,  and  shaded  them  from  the  glare  of  the  after- 
noon sunlight  and  looked  again.  Those  large 
letters,  could  he  believe  his  eyes  or  his  senses  ! 

MRS.   JUDGE   BURNHAM   WILL  PRESIDE. 


IQO        ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY. 


It  was  hard  on  him,  really.  I  will  not  have  you 
entirely  unsympathetic  with  him  ;  if  you  do  not 
try  to  understand  the  people  who  are  of  another 
world  than  yours,  to  —  in  short,  "  put  yourselves 
in  their  places  "  occasionally,  how  do  you  expect  to 
be  other  than  narrow  and  cold  in  your  charities? 

This  was  entirely  contrary  to  all  his  precon- 
ceived ideas  of  propriety,  as  well  as  utterly  out  of 
line  with  his  sympathies.  It  was  also  very  unlike 
Ruth  ;  no  one  understood  that  better  than  she  did 
herself  ;  she,  as  you  know,  had  been  through  a  con- 
flict on  account  of  it ;  she  had  taken  up  the  work 
as  a  duty,  a  cross  from  which  she  shrank ;  her 
husband  having  neither  words  in  his  vocabulary 
could  not  be  expected  to  understand  how  it  was 
possible  for  this  sentence  to  refer  to  his  wife. 
Yet  what  other  Mrs.  Judge  Burnham  was  there  in 
the  city,  or  in  the  world,  for  that  matter  ?  This 
mystery  must  be  looked  into  without  delay.  He 
drew  out  his  watch  ;  it  was  now  fifteen  minutes 
past  three,  and  that  odious  Burnham  Hall  was  but 
four  blocks  away  ;  he  must  go  and  see  for  himself. 
And  this  was  what  had  given  Mrs.  Stuart  Bacon  a 
chance  to  nudge  her  companion's  elbow,  and  smile 
her  surprise  and  approval  when  the  great  man 
entered  the  hall. 

He  went  forward  the  moment  the  closing  hymn 
was  sung,  with  a  smile  of  greeting  on  his  face,  and 
a  hand  held  out  to  Ruth.  "  You  did  not  expect 
me  in  your  audience,  I  fancy  ? " 


ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY.         191 

"  Hardly,  "  said  Ruth,  "since  I  thought  you  still 
hundreds  of  miles  away ;  but  you  do  not  need  to 
hear  me  say  I  am  glad,  though  the  surprise,  for  a 
moment,  nearly  took  my  breath  away." 

She  seemed  not  in  the  least  embarrassed,  and 
was  giving  only  half  attention  to  him,  her  eyes, 
meantime,  following  the  movements  of  a  roughly- 
dressed  young  man,  who  appeared  to  hesitate,  in 
doubt  just  what  to  do.  He  advanced  a  few  steps, 
then  turned  and  stood  irresolute.  Just  as  Judge 
Burn  ham  had  possessed  himself  of  his  wife's  heavy, 
fur-lined  cloak,  and  had  said,  "  You  would  do  well 
to  wait  until  you  reach  purer  air  before  you  don 
this,"  she  turned  abruptly  from  him,  made  a 
quick  dash  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the 
frayed  coat  sleeve  of  the  young  man.  "  May  I 
speak  just  a  word  with  you?"  he  heard  her  ask, 
and  then  he  stood  and  waited,  with  what  grace  he 
could,  while  the  voice  dropped  too  low  for  even  his 
strained  ears  ;  and  he  could  only  watch.  The 
young  man's  eyes  were  bent  on  the  floor,  but  his 
face  was  working  under  the  spell  of  some  powerful 
emotion  ;  he  even  put  up  his  hand  and  furtively 
brushed  away  a  starting  tear  as  Ruth  talked  and 
her  husband  chafed.  What  an  insufferable  piece 
of  folly  it  all  seemed  to  him  !  His  wife  standing 
there  in  eager,  low-toned  speech  with  an  uncouth 
fellow,  smelling  of  tobacco  and  cheap  whiskey  ; 
actually  keeping  her  light  hold  on  his  arm  with 
that  shapely  hand   of  hers  !     More   than  that,  at 


192         ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY. 

some  response  of  the  fellow's,  given  with  apparent 
energy,  and  a  lifting  of  his  eyes,  a  light  such  as 
even  he  had  never  seen  before,  broke  over  the 
face,  whose  every  expression  he  thought  he  knew, 
and  then  the  ungloved  hand  met  that  hard,  red  one 
in  a  firm  and  evidently  cordial  grasp.  It  was  but 
a  few  minutes,  though  it  seemed  almost  hours  to 
the  waiting  husband  ;  then  she  turned  to  him 
again,  the  peculiar  light  still  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  ready  now,"  she  said  ;  and  they  went 
down  the  stairs  with  the  noisy  crowd,  and  had 
walked  nearly  the  length  of  a  block  before  Judge 
Burnham  broke  the  silence. 

"  It  occurs  to  me  that  this  is  an  entirely  new 
departure." 

"Very,"  said  Ruth  gently  ;  "  I  never  did  such  a 
thing  before  in  my  life  ;  I  did  not  imagine  that  I 
possibly  could." 

Even  now  she  was  preoccupied.  She  was  hardly 
giving  a  thought  to  the  one  to  whom  she  was  speak- 
ing, or  to  the  probable  effect  of  the  entire  scene  on 
his  nerves.  The  simple  truth  was,  she  had  just 
been  brought  face  to  face  with  a  new  and  solemn 
joy,  which  is  unlike  any  other  joy  to  be  experi- 
enced this  side  of  heaven  ;  which  is  understood 
only  by  those  who  have  experienced  it,  and  which 
can  no  more  be  described  than  one  can  describe 
the  air  we  breathe,  or  the  heaven  to  which  we  are 
going.  She  had  been  permitted  of  the  Lord  to 
speak   such   words   as  had    moved  the  soul  of   a 


ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY.         1 93 

young  man — a  young  man  who  was  in  peril  — 
whose  widowed  mother  was  even  now  mourning 
for  him  as  one  lost  to  her  and  to  God.  He  had 
been  moved  more  than  merely  emotionally  ;  that 
tremendous  potentate  that  rules  destinies  —  the 
human  will  —  had  spoken. 

"  I  will  do  it,"  the  young  man  had  said,  and  the 
tone  and  the  look  that  accompanied  the  words,  and 
above  all  the  answering  witness  of  her  own  soul, 
made  her  sure  that  the  decision  which  had  to  do 
with  time  and  eternity  had  been  made. 

And  she  had  been  the  instrument  !  It  was  the 
first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  ever  been  so 
distinctly  chosen  and  used.  Was  this  a  time  for 
wondering  what  a  man  who  belonged  outside  the 
camp  would  have  to  say  to  her,  even  though  that 
man  was  her  husband  ?  There  were  humiliations 
enough  ahead,  but  this  was  her  moment  of  ex- 
altation. 

Her  manner  irritated  Judge  Burnham.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  He  did  not  understand  it. 
Was  she  trying  to  show  him  how  utterly  indif- 
ferent she  was  to  his  wishes  ? 

"  We  should  have  agreed  perfectly  in  that 
opinion,"  he  said  with  marked  significance.  "  I 
confess  I  had  not  the  least  idea  that  you  could 
possibly  do  anything  of  the  sort.  Is  it  a  proper 
time  to  ask  how  you  came  to  make  such  an  un- 
pleasant discovery  ?  " 

"As  what  ?"  she  asked  gently,  but  with  infinite 


194        0N    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY. 

stupidity.  She  had  not  been  following  him  enough 
to  understand  him.  She  was  thinking  what  an 
evening  it  would  be  to  that  boy's  mother  when 
she  heard  the  news. 

"  As  that  you  were  endowed  with  the  peculiar 
qualities  which  make  it  possible  for  a  woman  to 
step  on  to  a  public  platform  and  harangue  an 
audience  of  coarse  men  and  low-bred  women  ?" 

Certainly  these  words  were  not  easily  misunder- 
stood. Ruth  flushed  under  them,  but  still  her 
voice  was  gentle,  unusually  so,  — 

"  I  did  not  harangue  them,  I  think  ;  I  was  only 
talking  to  them  about  the  power  of  Jesus  Christ 
to  save,  and  I  felt  so  keenly  that  they  needed  sav- 
ing, as  to  forget  all  other  considerations." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  "  he  asked,  almost 
fiercely. 

They  were  passing  one  of  those  odious  posts, 
with  its  flaming  letters.  They  looked  as  much  as 
a  foot  in  length  to  Ruth  as  her  eye  caught  them 
now. 

"  I  do  not  like  it  at  all,"  she  said  hastily.  "  I 
do  not  understand  why  they  did  it.  At  first  I  was 
really  angry,  but  I  do  not  mind  it  so  much  now." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  Will  it  impress  you  in 
any  degree  if  I  tell  you  that  I  mind  it  very  much 
indeed  ?  It  was  the  first  greeting  which  I  received 
on  my  arrival,  and  if  I  had  caught  the  fellow  put- 
ting one  of  them  up,  I  should  have  kicked  him 
into   the  road.     I  know  why  they  did  it.     They 


ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY.         1 95 

like  to  have  your  name  bandied  about  the  town,  as 
it  will  be  to-night,  in  the  mouth  of  every  low 
saloon  keeper,  and  the  drunken  habitues  of  his 
house.  It  adds  to  their  importance  to  know  that 
they  have  done  something  which  will  set  the  vul- 
gar world  a-gap.  '  Anything  for  notoriety '  is  their 
motto." 

The  flush  had  died  away  from  Ruth's  face  ;  she 
was  growing  very  pale.  This  was  a  rapid  descent 
from  the  mount  whereon  she  had  been  standing. 
Only  a  moment  before  she  had  felt  as  though 
earth  and  its  commonplaces  could  not  touch  her 
again,  because  she  had  been  permitted  for  a  mo- 
ment to  stand  face  to  face  with  Jesus  Christ. 
Yet  here  was  the  keen,  cruel  world  at  her  very 
elbow. 

They  had  been  walking  rapidly.  Unconsciously 
Judge  Burnham  had  quickened  his  pace  with  every 
angry  word  he  spoke,  and  by  this  time  they  had 
reached  their  own  door.  He  applied  his  night  latch, 
held  open  the  door  with  his  accustomed  courtesy 
for  his  wife,  then  closing  it  quickly,  stooped  and 
kissed  her,  and  held  her  with  his  arm  while  he 
spoke  :  — 

"  Ruth,  I  am  angry  ;  I  don't  think  I  was  ever 
more  so.  It  seems  to  me  I  have  been  unfairly 
treated  ;  as  if  you  must  understand  me  better 
than  this  afternoon's  scene  would  indicate.  But 
I  have  been  long  away,  and  have  missed  you 
sorely.     I  have  been  looking  forward  all  day  to 


I96        ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY. 

the  pleasure  of  meeting  you.  It  was  hard  on  a 
man  to  have  to  meet  you  where,  and  as  I  did. 
But  I  do  you  justice,  even  now,  in  my  indignation. 
I  give  you  credit  for  not  being  of  the  same  spirit 
with  this  notoriety-loving  crowd,  though  you  have 
somehow  fallen  among  them.  I  know  the  power 
of  religious  fanaticism.  I  have  studied  it  more  or 
less  as  I  came  in  contact  with  it  in  the  line  of  my 
profession  ;  I  even  know  that  it  has  been  carried 
to  such  excess  before  now  that  the  doors  of  lunatic 
asylums  have  had  to  close  on  its  victims.  I  trust 
I  may  have  strength  of  mind  enough  to  shield  you 
from  great  harm.  You  will  bear  me  witness  that 
I  have  not  often  laid  commands  on  you  of  any 
sort  ;  that  in  theory  and  practice  I  believe  in 
the  utmost  freedom  of  individual  will  between 
husband  and  wife,  that  is  compatible  with  true 
dignity  ;  but  you  have  really  forced  me,  uninten- 
tionally, I  fully  believe,  but  none  the  less  really, 
to  say  to  you  that  it  is  something  more  than  my 
request  —  much  more,  indeed  —  that  you  should 
never  enter  the  doors  of  such  a  place  again  as 
that  one  in  which  I  found  you  this  afternoon. 
Now  let  me  beg  that  you  will  make  a  complete 
change  of  dress,  both  for  your  sake  and  mine. 
Let  us  get  rid  of  any  reminder  of  the  offensive 
scene.  Positively,  Ruth,  even  the  lace  on  your 
sleeve  smells  of  bad  tobacco." 

Mrs.   Burnham   went   up  the  winding  staircase 
with  a  slow,  weary  air ;  all  the  pulses  of  her  life 


ON  THE  MOUNT  AND  IN  THE  VALLEY.    \()J 

seemed  to  have  stopped  beating.  Yet  thought  was 
all  the  time  very  busy.  She  had  been  brought 
suddenly  down  to  the  level  of  the  commonplace 
again,  with  questions  to  settle  which  must  be 
thought  about. 

Just  how  far  was  she  bound  to  obey  her  husband's 
dictation  in  this  matter?  For,  though  courteously 
phrased,  it  amounted  to  nothing  less  than  dicta- 
tion. Was  she  bound  in  honor  to  withdraw  from 
this  bit  of  Christian  work  to  which  her  soul  had 
responded  ?  Must  she  even  give  up  the  hour  spent 
with  those  Christian  women  in  their  place  of  prayer  ? 
Had  not  the  Lord  called  her  to  the  work  ?  Had 
he  not  honored  her  in  it,  and  were  her  husband's 
claims  to  be  put  before  his  ?  If  she  had  really 
been  the  human  means  of  saving  a  soul  this  after- 
noon, was  not  that  return  enough  to  enable  her  to 
endure  all  the  disagreements  of  life  and  the  dis- 
comforts arising  therefrom  ? 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  had  the  Lord  called 
her  to  do  just  this  thing,  whether  her  husband 
approved  or  not  ?  There  were  so  many  things  of 
which  he  did  not  approve,  yet  about  which  there 
was  no  question,  which  she  must  do,  of  course, 
that  perhaps,  when  it  was  possible  to  yield,  one 
ought.  She  did  not  know,  and  found  that  she 
could  not  decide  just  where  the  "ought"  came 
in.  It  was  easy  to  tell  what  one  wanted  to  do. 
She  would  like  to  go  down  to  her  husband  that 
moment,  and  say  to  him  that  she  was  sorry  their 


I98        ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY. 

two  ways  did  not  agree,  but  that  in  this  way  which 
she  had  chosen,  and  which  had  its  reward,  and 
which  she  loved  with  all  her  soul,  she  should  cer- 
tainly walk.  Ruth  Burnham  of  yesterday  would 
have  done  so,  but  the  Ruth  Burnham  of  to-day 
had  been  on  the  mount  with  God  for  a  little 
while,  and  found  somewhat  to  her  bewilderment, 
that  all  her  judgments  of  men  and  things  were 
softened,  and  that  even  such  questions  as  these 
must  be  looked  at  in  the  light  of  unselfishness. 

Meantime,  she  slowly  made  the  entire  changes 
in  her  dress  which  had  been  called  for.  This 
much,  at  least,  she  could  do  ;  she  was  glad  there 
was  no  question  in  her  mind  about  it.  She  smiled 
somewhat  curiously  over  the  discovery  that  her 
recent  experiences  had  made  her  look  at  even  so 
trivial  a  thing  as  this  in  a  different  light.  Yester- 
day she  would  have  said  that  she  was  sorry  her 
dress  did  not  suit  him,  but  it  really  was  the  most 
appropriate  garment"  she  had,  for  the  hour,  and 
she  must  ask  him  to  be  content  with  it.  To-day 
such  a  response  looked  humiliatingly  hateful.  Had 
she  really  been  a  disagreeable  Christian  through 
all  these  years  ? 

At  last  she  came  to  this  conclusion  :  that  no 
decision  in  regard  to  the  other  matter  was  possi- 
ble now  ;  she  must  put  it  aside  with  steady  will, 
until  such  time  as  she  could  be  alone  to  think, 
and  to  discover  just  where  that  solemn  "  ought  " 
belonged.     At  present  there  was  other  work  for 


ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY.  199 

her — disagreeable  work;  there  was  that  letter 
of  warning  from  Marion  in  her  pocket.  Must  it 
be  shown  to  her  husband  ?  She  shrank  from 
this  with  an  aversion  of  which  she  was  ashamed, 
though  she  recognized  the  reason  ;  it  was  because 
she  did  not  want  to  hear  these  friends  of  hers  criti- 
cised, sneered  at,  perhaps  ;  but  what  a  humiliating 
thing  that  she  must  expect  for  them  such  treat- 
ment at  her  husband's  hands  ! 

On  the  whole,  you  will  not  think  it  was  a  pleasant 
home-coming,  after  her  hour  of  exaltation. 

Yet  I  want  to  tell  you  that  the  last  thing  she 
did,  before  joining  her  husband  in  the  library,  was 
to  kneel  in  her  place  of  prayer,  and  thank  God  for 
the  clasp  of  that  rough,  red  hand,  and  the  decision 
in  the  voice,  as  it  said  to  her,  "  I  will  do  it." 
Above  all  the  turmoil  of  conflicting  anxieties  rose 
the  note  of  joy  for  this  new  soldier  added  to  the 
ranks  of  her  King. 

Erskine  was  in  the  library,  in  full  tide  of  joy 
over  his  father's  return.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
as  to  the  heartiness  of  this  welcome,  and  Judge 
Burnham  was  enjoying  to  the  full  the  eager  kisses 
and  extravagant  delight  of  his  boy.  There  were 
no  vexed  differences  of  opinion  here  to  mar  the 
pleasure  ;  at  least,  there  were  none  which  appeared 
on  the  surface. 

He  arose,  on  his  wife's  entrance,  smiled  as  he 
gave  her  a  swift  survey,  and  noted  that  she  was 
dressed  in  his  favorite  colors,  said  "Thank  you" 


200        ON    THE    MOUNT    AND    IN    THE    VALLEY. 

in  a  very  expressive  tone,  and  drew  an  easy  chair 
for  her  close  to  his  own.  Evidently,  he  considered 
the  matter  that  had  come  between  them,  already 
settled. 

The  talk  flowed  on,  on  different  topics,  during 
Erskine's  presence,  he  taking  a  liberal  share  in  it 
all.  From  the  music  room  came  the  hum  of  voices, 
interrupted  frequently  by  a  sharp,  dry  cough.  Judge 
Burn  ham  glanced  anxiously  in  that  direction  from 
time  to  time,  and  once  interrupted  himself  to  say, 
"  It  seems  to  me  that  Seraph's  cough  is  worse  than 
usual." 

"It  is  much  worse,"  Ruth  said;  "she  has  ex- 
posed herself  cruelly  during  the  past  two  weeks, 
and  to-day  is  quite  feverish." 

"  Who  is  with  her  in  the  music  room  ? " 
"  Mr.  Satterley  ;  I  think  no  one  else.     Have  you 
not  seen  her  ?  " 

"  O,  yes!  she  came  to  me  for  a  moment." 
He  arose  as  he  spoke,  lifted  Erskine  to  the  ceil- 
ing and  down  again,  then  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  Well, 
popinjay,   run  away  now  to  Joan  ;  mamma  and  I 
must  do  some  talking  without  your  interruption." 


A   PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING.  201 


w 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING. 

ELL,"  he  said  again,  as  the  door  closed 
after  Erskine,  "  I  received  your  letter  with 
its  inclosures,  which  were  as  clear  as  the  reports 
of  professional  detectives,  and  reminded  me  some- 
what of  them.  What  do  you  gather  from  it  all  ? 
What  are  the  reports,  and  from  what  source  do 
they  come  ?  " 

"  I  know  very  little,  Judge  Burnham,  save  what 
that  letter  tells  you  ;  people  do  not  speak  plainly 
to  me  ;  the  air  seems  to  be  full  of  vague  rumors  ; 
even  Mr.  Satterley,  as  I  told  you,  is  disposed  to 
offer  a  warning." 

"  Even  Mr  Satterley  !  You  speak  as  though  he 
were  the  last  person  from  whom  you  would  expect 
propriety  ;  we,  as  a  family,  seem  singularly  un- 
fortunate in  our  choice  of  friends;  none  of  them 
suit  your  tastes.  What  does  Satterley  mean  ?  At 
least,  you  could  question  him.", 

"  You  are  mistaken  ;  I  was  less  willing  to  ques- 
tion him  than  I  would  have  been  some  of  the 
others  ;  and  he  did  not  choose  to  enlighten  me 
further  than  I  told  you." 


202  A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING. 

And  by  this  time  Ruth  had  decided  to  say 
nothing  about  that  letter  from  Marion,  which  lay 
hidden  in  her  pocket.  What  did  it  tell,  more  than 
he  already  knew  ? 

Judge  Burnham  shook  himself  impatiently,  as 
though  he  would  give  much  to  shake  off  the  whole 
disagreeable  subject. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  look  into  the  rumors,"  he 
said,  taking  long  strides  up  and  down  the  room. 
"  I  worked  myself  into  almost  a  panic  last  night, 
thinking  it  over,  and  rode  all  night,  and  lost  per- 
haps a  thousand  dollars  or  so  by  not  stopping  off 
at  Shoreham  ;  I  had  a  sort  of  impression  that 
there  might  be  a  crisis  pending,  though  I  am  sure 
I  don't  know  why  ;  but  the  reports  were  so  vague 
as  to  afford  ample  food  for  the  imagination,  if  one 
gave  them  any  hearing  at  all.  I  suspect  I  was 
foolish  to  notice  them  ;  but  to-morrow,  after  I 
have  looked  into  matters  at  the  office,  I  will  see  if 
I  can  find  out  whether  it  is  a  case  of  black-mail,  or 
simple  meddling.  It  is  hard  if  a  man  cannot  have 
one  evening  of  rest  in  his  own  home,  Sunday  at 
that.  Seraph  really  coughs  dreadfully.  I'll  have 
Westwood  come  out  in  the  morning  and  see  her." 

"  Don't  delay  another  day,"  said  the  warning 
letter  in  Ruth's  pocket.  She  drew  it  forth  reluc- 
tantly. "I  have  nothing  beyond  what  I  wrote 
you,  save  this,  which  came  to  me  this  afternoon. 
I  suppose  you  will  attach  no  importance  to  it, 
however." 


A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING.  203 

He  read  it  through  hastily,  his  face  glooming 
over  it. 

"  Why  didn't  you  show  it  to  me  at  first  ?  "  he 
demanded.  "  How  can  I  tell  whether  to  attach 
importance  to  it  or  not  ?  Unless  Dennis  is  a  born 
fool,  he  would  not  send  such  a  message  to  a  woman 
without  having  some  show  of  reason.  At  least,  I 
will  see  him,  and  demand  an  explanation.  I'll  go 
in  on  the  next  train." 

"  But  Dr.  Dennis  will  be  in  the  midst  of  his 
evening  service,"  Ruth  said,  dismayed,  she  hardly 
knew  why. 

"  Well,  evening  service  will  not  last  all  night,  I 
suppose.  If  you  had  told  me  when  I  first  came, 
I  could  have  caught  him  before  service  began  ; 
now  I  shall  have  to  wait  until  it  closes,  and  then 
wait  for  the  midnight  train,  I  presume.  Pretty 
hard  on  a  man  who  has  been  traveling  every  night 
for  a  week." 

Judge  Burnham  was  rarely  so  ungentlemanly  as 
this  ;  he  must  be  very  much  worried,  Ruth  thought, 
and  she  busied  herself,  without  further  words,  in 
certain  little  attentions  for  his  comfort.  His  last 
words  as  he  closed  the  door  were  :  — 

"  Seraph  ought  to  attend  to  that  cough  to-night. 
Tell  her  to  take  some  hot  lemonade,  and  retire 
early  ;  I'll  have  Westwood  call  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning." 

But  Seraph  came  to  the  dinner-table,  half  an 
hour  afterward,  looking  not  at  all  ready  to  retire. 


204  A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING. 

She  was  in  very  rich  evening  costume,  of  the  sub- 
dued sort  that  the  fashionable  world  assumes  when 
it  wants  to  do  honor  to  the  proprieties  of  the  Sab- 
bath, and  yet  be  as  elegant  as  possible. 

"  You  are  surely  not  going  out  to-night  !  "  Ruth 
exclaimed,  rather  than  asked,  noting  the  flush  on 
the  cheeks  which  was  deeper  than  health  produces, 
and  the  quick  movement  of  the  hand  to  her  side 
when  she  coughed. 

"  I  surely  am.  If  you  were  musically  inclined, 
you  would  know  that  to-night  is  the  great  treat  of 
the  season  at  St.  Peter's.  Where  is  papa  ?  I 
thought  he  would  want  to  hear  Fenwood  sing." 

"  He  went  to  town  on  the  six  o'clock  train, 
though  I  do  not  think  he  will  attend  St.  Peter's. 
But,  Seraph,  really,  excuse  my  persistence,  but  you 
look  ill  enough  to  be  in  bed.  Your  father  heard 
your  cough,  and  was  troubled  ;  he  wished  me  to 
ask  you  to  take  hot  lemonade,  and  retire  early." 

Seraph  laughed  musically. 

"  I  shall  probably  retire  early  ;  quite  early  to- 
morrow morning,  unless  we  are  so  fortunate  as  to 
make  the  eleven  o'clock  train,  and  I  do  not  suppose 
we  can  ;  it  is  a  long  drive  from  St.  Peter's  to  the 
station." 

Ruth  was  so  thoroughly  convinced  of  this  danger 
of  venture  into  the  chill  night  air,  especially  as  a 
sleety,  northwest  rain  had  set  in,  that  she  at- 
tempted a  further  remonstrance. 

"  If  I  were  Mr.  Satterley,  I  should  protest  ear- 


A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING.  205 

nestly  against  this  exposure.  Seraph,  I  am  sure 
your  father  would  not  approve  ;  he  said  he  should 
call  Dr.  West  wood  early  in  the  morning." 

"  Mr.  Satterley  knows  better,  mamma,  than  to 
interpose  authority  ;  even  married  women  do  not 
obey,  unless  they  choose,  as  you  will  certainly  bear 
me  witness  ;  and  as  for  failing  in  hearing  Fenwood 
sing,  just  because  papa  is  nervous  about  a  cough, 
is  not  to  be  thought  of.  I  should  go"  to-night  if  I 
were  sure  of  taking  so  much  cold  that  I  could  not 
appear  again  this  season." 

Judge  Burnham  did  not  return  on  the  midnight 
train.  Ruth's  cathedral  clock  tolled  three  just 
as  he  entered  her  room.  His  state  of  mind  the 
next  morning  might  have  been  described  by  Mr. 
Satterley's  word  "  glum."  He  made  not  the  slight- 
est attempt  at  conversation,  either  in  his  room  or 
at  the  breakfast  table ;  and  in  reply  to  Minta's 
statement  that  Seraph  was  not  able  to  lift  her 
head  from  the  pillow,  said  he  was  not  surprised ; 
that  she  was  alive,  was  the  only  matter  for  aston- 
ishment there  could  be  this  morning :  and  so  far 
forgot  himself  as  to  add,  even  in  the  presence  of 
Robert,  who  was  waiting  on  the  table,  that  he 
should  think  if  there  had  ever  been  any  justification 
for  interference  in  the  plans  of  the  young  ladies,  it 
would  have  made  itself  apparent  last  night ;  that 
he  was  simply  amazed  when  he  saw  Seraph  in 
town.  Then  he  turned  to  Minta  before  she  had 
calmed  the  gleam  of  merriment  in  her  eyes  over 


206  A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING. 

this  public  rebuke  of  her  step-mother, "Where 

were  you  before  you  joined  your  sister  at  St.  Peter's 
last  night  ? " 

"Why,  I  was  in  several  places.  I  lunched  with 
Allie  Powell,  and  went  from  there  to  hear  the  an- 
them at  the  Clark  Place  Cathedral." 

"With  whom  ?" 

"  Why,  papa,  with  the  one  in  whose  charge  I 
was,  of  course.  I  stayed  in  town  on  Saturday 
with  Ellice  Farnham." 

"  Robert,  "  said  Judge  Burnham,  suddenly  re- 
turning to  the  proprieties  long  enough  for  that, 
"we  do  not  need  any  further  serving.  Mrs. 
Burnham,  can  he  be  excused  ?  " 

Then,  before  the  door  was  fairly  closed  after 
him, — 

"That  answer  does  not  enlighten  me  as  to  your 

escort  ? " 

"Why,  papa,  you  know  surely,  without  my  tell- 
ing you,  that  I  was  with  Mr.  Hamlin.  Didn't  you 
see  us  together?" 

"  Did  you  leave  home  in  his  company  ? " 

"  No,  sir ;  certainly  not.  I  told  you  I  went 
home  with  Ellice  Farnham  on  Saturday.  She  was 
here  to  lunch,  and  I  went  into  town  with  her." 

"And  met  Hamlin  at  her  house?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  he  was  there  to  dinner." 

"  By  appointment,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Minta's  face  had  grown  unbecomingly  red  under 
this  fire  of  cross-questioning.     At  last  she  spoke : — 


A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING.  207 

"  Papa,  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  What  if  I 
had  engaged  to  dine  at  a  friend's  in  company  with 
other  guests  ?  It  is  nothing  more  than  I  do  con- 
stantly.    I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  It  means  that  you  have  been  warned  several 
times  during  my  absence  against  this  particular 
young  man,  and  that  you  have  chosen  to  pay  no 
attention  to  the  warnings,  though  they  came,  some 
of  them,  from  a  source  which  I  should  not  suppose 
any  young  lady  of  intelligence  would  overlook.  It 
also  means  that  you  are  to  have  nothing  to  do 
with  this  individual  from  this  time  forth  ;  neither 
to  dine  with  him,  nor  ride  with  him,  nor  speak  to 
him  if  he  presumes  to  call." 

Evidently  Judge  Burnham  did  not  understand 
his  daughter. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  speaking  steadily,  though  her 
face  had  now  grown  very  pale,  "  I  do  not  know 
what  right  you  think  you  have  for  ordering  me 
about  as  if  I  were  a  child.  I  obeyed  you  like  a 
slave,  for  years,  I  know  ;  and  trembled  before  you, 
even  at  a  time  when  you  were  treating  me  in  a 
way  that  the  commonest  kitchen  girl  does  not  ex- 
pect. But  that  time  is  past.  I  discovered  long 
ago  how  insufferably  I  had  been  treated  ;  and  al- 
though you  have  done  what  you  could  to  make  me 
forget  it,  I  have  not.  I  can  tell  the  story  very 
distinctly  if  I  have  occasion  ;  and  if  you  expect  the 
slavish  obedience  to  your  orders  that  you  used  to 
receive  when   I  had  been  kept  in  such  ignorance 


208  A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING. 

that  I  did  not  know  my  rights,  you  will  be  dis- 
appointed ;  for  I  am  of  age,  and  shall  do  as  I 
please." 

If  he  did  not  understand  the  character  of  his 
daughter,  neither  had  she  correctly  gauged  him. 
The  angry  and  insolent  address  had  the  (to  her) 
unexpected  effect  of  quieting  his  outward  excite- 
ment. The  habits  of  years  resumed  their  sway. 
He  was  again  the  watchful,  wary  lawyer  who  had 
an  enemy  to  hold  in  check,  and  interests  to  guard. 

"  Really,"  he  said,  and  a  half-quizzical  smile  was 
on  his  face,  "ought  I  to  apologize,  do  you  think, 
for  forgetting  that  I  had  a  young  woman  to  deal 
with,  instead  of  a  naughty  child  who  deserved 
punishment  ?  I  had  for  the  moment  forgotten  the 
lapse  of  years.  I  will  order  my  speech  more  care- 
fully. You  are  of  age,  it  is  true  ;  so,  you  will 
remember,  am  I.  And  this  is  my  house,  and  the 
funds  that  enable  you  to  live  your  free  and 
hitherto  apparently  satisfactory  life  are  mine.  You 
are  at  liberty  to  choose.  If  you  prefer  the  society 
of  those  whom  I  utterly  disapprove,  you  will  seek 
that  society  outside  of  my  house  ;  neither  need 
you  return  to  it  after  having  enjoyed  yourself 
among  your  chosen  friends.  Since  you  have 
chosen  to  refer  to  the  past  in  a  manner  that  would 
almost  seem  to  cover  a  threat, I  will  admit  that  my 
memory  is  also  good,  and  that  when  I  returned 
after  a  prolonged  absence  abroad,  to  find  that  you 
were   utterly    unfit,  mentally   and   physically,  for 


A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING.  20Q 

companionship  with  me,  I  did  the  only  thing  I 
knew  how  to  do,  furnished  your  guardians  un- 
stintedly with  money,  and  left  you  to  yourself 
until  my  wife  appeared  on  the  scene,  and  showed 
me  what  years  of  careful  training  could  do  to 
make  you  fit  companions  for  people  of  culture. 
If  you  prefer  now  to  prove  that  we  were  both  mis- 
taken, and  that  your  preferences  are  for  the  low  in 
character  and  the  degraded  in  life,  you  will,  of 
course,  be  at  liberty  to  make  the  facts  as  plain  as 
you  choose.  The  social  positions  of  Mrs.  Burn- 
ham  and  myself  are,  perhaps,  you  are  aware,  quite 
equal  to  any  strain  that  even  you  may  put  upon 
them. 

"  After  this  very  plain  understanding,  I  will 
take  the  trouble  to  add  —  what  you  hardly  deserve 
—  that  I  have  convinced  myself  of  the  utter  worth- 
lessness  of  the  person  under  discussion,  as  I  would 
have  taken  pains  to  show  you  had  I  not  felt,  be- 
cause of  knowledge  that  came  to  me  last  night 
from  outside  sources,  that  you  had  already  received 
warning  enough  to  satisfy  any  reasonable  woman  ; 
but  I  will  add  mine.  The  stories  that  you  have 
heard  are  undoubtedly  true,  and  more  are  true 
than  you  know  anything  about.  The  man  is  not 
fit  for  a  respectable  woman  to  acknowledge  with  a 
bow.  If,  even  after  your  exceedingly  improper 
language  this  morning,  you  conduct  yourself  prop- 
erty, we  will  let  the  memory  of  it  drop,  and  your 
position  in  our  home  shall  be  in  the  future  what  it 


2IO  A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING. 

has  been  in  the  past.  You  are  at  liberty  to  choose. 
You  will  observe  that,  after  all,  I  have  not  acted 
the  part  of  an  excused  guardian  to  a  young  woman 
who  was  of  age,  but  of  an  indulgent  father,  being 
willing  to  condone  even  almost  unpardonable  in- 
solence, because  I  attribute  it  to  the  undue  ex- 
citement of  the  moment.  And  now,  I  trust  we 
fully  understand  each  other." 

He  arose  as  he  spoke,  and  turned  toward  his 
wife. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,  for  this  long 
detention  at  the  breakfast-table  ;  do  not  expect 
me  to  luncheon  ;  we  are  on  the  eve  of  an  explosion 
in  the  business  world,  which  will  bring  ruin  to  both 
character  and  bank  accounts  in  certain  directions. 
I  found  last  night  that  this  matter  involved  more 
than  I  had  imagined  possible.  I  will  send  West- 
wood  out  to  look  after  Seraph." 

He  had  talked  himself  into  apparent  good  humor. 
His  parting  bow  and  "good-morning"  to  Minta 
were,  if  not  fatherly,  at  least  courteous,  and  he 
only  smiled  when  she  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

"  She  will  come  to  her  senses  when  she  has  had 
time  to  think,"  he  said  to  Ruth,  who  followed  him 
to  the  hall,  with  a  face  full  of  anxiety.  "  I  had  no 
idea  she  was  so  full  of  fire.  I  am  afraid,  my  dear, 
you  have  had  more  to  bear  from  her  than  I  had 
imagined  possible.  But  this  miserable  business, 
when  we  are  well  over  with  it,  will  be  beneficial  to 
her,  perhaps.     The  scoundrel  will  be  safely  lodged 


A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING.  211 

in  prison  before  many  days.  O,  yes  !  it  is  as  bad 
as  it  can  be,  in  every  way.  The  misery  of  it  is 
that  our  name  must  be  dragged  somewhat  into  the 
slime.  I  had  no  idea  she  was  so  much  in  his 
society  ;  if  your  friends  had  not  been  so  afraid  of 
their  communications,  we  might  have  kept  our- 
selves out  of  the  denouement.  I  can  furnish  my 
lady  with  particulars,  by  to-morrow,  which  will 
startle  her.  No,  money  will  not  help  him  ;  in  the 
first  place,  there  is  none  ;  he  has  involved  his  uncle 
in  utter  financial  ruin." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  in  answer  to  his  wife's 
anxious  suggestion  that  he  did  not  yet  understand 
Minta,  that  she  might  be  on  the  verge  of  some 
desperate  step  ;  "  I  understend  her  well  enough  to 
know  that  she  will  hardly  take  any  steps  to-day  ; 
she  is  not  an  idiot ;  she  has  plenty  of  Burnham 
blood  in  her  veins.  Angry,  she  is,  without  doubt ; 
but  solitude,  and  time  for  reflection,  will  compose 
her  nerves." 

"  But,  Judge  Burnham,  if  she  should  really  be 
attached  to  the  man  —  how  can  you  know  what  in- 
fluence he  may  have  over  her  ?  I  wish  she  was  to 
be  in  your  care  to-day." 

"Attached!  Nonsense!  She  is  attached  to  his 
fine  horses,  and  the  gay  life  he  has  shown  her  ;  and 
her  pride  is  roused  ;  that  is  the  extent  of  the  mis- 
chief. Besides,  the  man  will  be  too  busy  to-day 
to  think  of  her.  I  tell  you,  there  is  to  be  an  earth- 
quake which  will  take  him  off  his  feet  ;   and  he  is 


212  A    PLAIN    UNDERSTANDING. 

unprepared  for  it.  However,  I  will  add  a  word  of 
emphasis,  to  quiet  your  fears."  And  he  opened 
the  dining-room  door  again.  Minta  had  risen 
from  the  table,  and  was  standing  at  the  window, 
with  her  back  to  the  door. 

"  My  daughter,"  he  said,  his  voice  a  trifle  kinder 
than  it  had  been  before,  "  I  trust  you  fully  under- 
stand me  that  if  you  choose  to  remain  under  my 
roof,  and  look  to  me  as  your  father  for  protection, 
you  are  under  commands  to  have  no  communi- 
cation in  any  form  with  any  person  by  the  name 
of  Hamlin,  or  with  any  person  connected  with 
him.  I  will  explain  more  fully  to  you  after  a 
day  or  two." 

She  neither  moved  nor  in  any  manner  indicated 
that  she  had  heard  a  word.  But  the  moment  the 
door  was  closed,  she  turned  toward  it  a  pair  of 
flashing  eyes,  and  said,  "  Will  you,  indeed  ?  No 
doubt  you  will  enjoy  the  explanation." 


STORMY    WEATHER.  21$ 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

STORMY    WEATHER. 

FROM  the  hall,  Ruth  went  directly  to  inquire 
as  to  Seraph's  condition,  and  found  work  for 
mind  and  hands.  The  girl  was  in  a  burning  fever, 
her  whole  frame  racked  with  an  incessant  cough  ; 
and  she  lay  with  both  hands  pressed  to  throbbing 
temples.  It  was  evident,  even  to  Ruth's  inexperi- 
enced eyes,  that  she  was  seriously  ill,  and  that 
much  valuable  time  had  probably  been  already 
lost. 

She  dispatched  a  special  messenger  at  once  for 
Dr.  Westwood,  and  busied  herself  until  his  arrival, 
in  using  what  remedies  or  alleviations  she  could 
think  of. 

He  came  sooner  than  she  had  dared  to  hope, 
her  messenger  having  found  him  on  the  road. 
He  at  once  made  it  evident  that  he  did  not  con- 
sider himself  as  having  been  called  a  moment  too 
soon,  and  for  the  next  hour  Ruth  was  absorbed  in 
arranging  to  have  his  minute  instructions  carried 
out.  He  was  so  manifestly  planning  for  a  very 
serious  fight  with  disease,  that  she  was  solemnized 


214  STORMY    WEATHER. 

by  the  thought,  and  for  the  time  being  all  minor 
matters  were  laid  aside. 

The  speed  with  which  a  well-ordered  house  can 
accommodate  itself  to  a  change  of  circumstances, 
would  make  an  interesting  study  for  the  curious. 
Before  noon  of  that  busy  day,  a  large  back  room 
which  had  a  southern  exposure,  and  was  not  so 
crowded  with  dainty  furnishings  as  were  the  young 
ladies'  rooms,  had  been,  under  the  doctor's  supervi- 
sion, prepared  for  the  sick  girl,  and  she  had  been 
carried  there,  and  a  professional  nurse  installed. 
The  lady  of  the  house  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief 
as  she  came  slowly  down  the  stairs,  having  received 
the  final  directions  of  the  tall  quiet,  self-sufficient 
young  woman  who  had  swiftly  obeyed  the  doctor's 
summons,  and  laid  aside  her  things  with  the  air  of 
one  who  had  always  belonged  just  in  that  room. 
Ruth  had  the  feeling  that  she  had  been  dismissed  ; 
it  brought  with  it  a  sense  of  relief  ;  the  responsibil- 
ity was  lifted  from  her  shoulders.  It  brought  with 
it,  also,  a  touch  of  pain,  recalling  as  it  did  the  grave 
facts  of  her  life  ;  if  she  were  in  truth  the  mother 
of  that  sick  girl,  or  if  she  held  in  her  heart  the 
place  which  some  second  mothers  won,  no  hired 
nurse  could  possibly  supersede  her  there.  As  it 
was  —  and  then  the  touch  of  pain  came  again.  - 

Meantime,  there  were  other  things  to  think 
about.  Where  was  Minta,  and  how  was  this  dis- 
tressing phase  of  their  life  to  end  ?  She  believed 
she  knew  the  girl  better  than  her  husband  did ; 


STORMY    WEATHER.  21  5 

she  by  no  means  expected  a  quiet  yielding  to  his 
commands  ;  but  just  what  form  the  rebellion  would 
take  would  depend,  probably,  on  what  advice  she  re- 
ceived from  Mr.  Hamlin.  And  then  Ruth  thought 
with  a  sudden  start  of  dismay,  that  in  her  anxiety 
and  pre-occupation  there  had  been  opportunity  for 
plenty  of  communication  between  the  two.  Now 
that  she  stopped  to  think  of  it,  it  was  strange  that 
in  all  the  arrangements  for  Seraph's  comfort,  her 
sister  had  taken  no  part.  She  went  hurriedly  to 
her  room  and  knocked,  wondering  the  while,  what 
excuse  she  should  make  for  intruding  ;  but  no 
answer  was  returned  to  her  knock.  She  went  to 
the  parlors  to  find  them  deserted  ;  in  the  music 
room  Kate  was  dusting. 

"  Do  you  know  where  I  can  find  Miss  Minta  ?  " 
Ruth  asked,  trying  to  keep  her  voice  as  usual. 

"  She  has  gone  out,  ma'am  ;  she  went  several 
hours  ago." 

"  Was  she  alone  ?  "  The  tone  was  hurried,  and 
an  eager  quiver  of  anxiety  showed  in  the  voice. 

"  Yes'm  ;  she  was  alone  when  she  left  the  house  ; 
she  told  me  that  she  would  probably  not  be  in  to 
lunch.  I  told  her  the  doctor  was  here,  and  that 
Miss  Seraph  was  pretty  sick,  and  she  said  yes, 
she  knew  it  ;  I  thought  perhaps  she  was  going  on 
some  errand  for  Miss  Seraph." 

"  Probably  that  is  the  case,"  Ruth  said,  turning 
away,  with  a  startled  fear,  nevertheless,  that  it  might 
not  be. 


2l6  STORMY    WEATHER. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  she  tormented  herself 
with  a  hundred  nameless  fears  and  wonderings. 
What  ought  she  to  do  ?  Was  it  important  that 
Judge  Burnham  should  know  of  the  girl's  absence? 
Should  she  telephone  him  ?  But  how  absurd  to 
send  him  a  message  that  Minta  had  gone  out  for  a 
walk  !  How  insulting  to  the  girl,  if  she  had  really- 
gone,  as  Kate  surmised,  on  some  business  for  the 
sick  sister  ! 

It  would  not  do  to  telephone  anything  like  that. 
Perhaps  she  might  go  herself  to  town,  and  give  her 
message  in  person.  But  it  was  not  probable  that 
Judge  Burnham  would  be  in  his  office  ;  he  had 
hinted  of  business  that  involved  others;  she  did 
not  know  where  to  look  for  him  ;  and  when,  with 
much  trouble,  she  found  him,  what  had  she  to  say 
but  that  his  daughter  was  very  sick,  and  she  had 
left  her  with  hired  attendants  only,  while  she 
came  to  tell  him  that  the  other  daughter  was  out 
walking  ?  Such  a  course  was  not  to  be  thought 
of.  Well,  then,  suppose  she  wrote  him  a  note  and 
sent  it  by  a  special  messenger  ?  And  then  she 
had  visions  of  the  messenger  going  from  office 
to  court  room,  to  the  offices  of  brother  lawyers, 
asking  many  questions,  following  the  busy  man 
from  point  to  point,  coming  upon  him  perhaps  in 
the  midst  of  his  most  distracting  anxieties,  inter- 
rupting him  with  a  note  which  had  simply  to  tell 
that  Minta  had  gone  out,  leaving  word  that  she 
might  .not  be  back  to  luncheon  !     The  whole  thing 


STORMY    WEATHER.  2\J 

began  to  look  absurd  to  her.  And  as,  later  in  the 
day,  Seraph  grew  worse,  rather  than  better,  and 
the  professional  nurse  was  glad  to  have  her  to 
hand  this  thing  and  remove  that,  she  put  aside 
the  other  anxiety  and  gave  herself  to  helpfulness. 

Nobody  lunched,  finally,  except  Erskine  and  the 
nurse.  It  was  drawing  near  to  the  dinner  hour 
before  Ruth  could  get  away  again  for  a  moment's 
rest.  Her  first  inquiry  was  for  Minta  ;  she  had 
not  returned,  nor  had  any  message  come  from  her. 
About  these  bare  facts  there  was  nothing  of 
necessity  to  rouse  anxiety  ;  to  Kate  it  had  merely 
the  air  of  an  every  day  occurrence. 

Mrs.  Burnham  was  still  in  morning  attire  ;  there 
had  been  no  time  to  think  of  dress.  Judge  Burnham 
would  not  like  this ;  it  was  one  of  the  points  on 
which  he  was  fastidious  to  a  fault.  His  wife  won- 
dered whether  there  would  be  time  to  make  some 
changes  before  he  came  ;  and  then  he  came.  Mr. 
Satterley  was  with  him,  and  Ruth  noted  that  he 
looked  worn  and  anxious  ;  she  wondered  if  he  had 
heard  of  Seraph's  illness,  and  if  he  really  cared 
for  her  enough  to  be  troubled  ;  Judge  Burnham 
did  not  even  seem  to  notice  the  morning  dress. 
"  Where  is  Minta  ?  "  were  his  first  abrupt  words, 
without  even  the  ceremony  of  a  bow. 

"She  has  gone  out,  "  trying  to  speak  as  usual. 

"  Gone  out !     Where  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  ;  she  went  while  I  was  other- 
wise engaged,  and  left  no  message  for  me ;  Kate 


2l8  STORMY    WEATHER. 

says    she    told    her    she    might    not    return    to 
lnncheon." 

"  Engaged  !  Do  you  know  what  you  are  talking 
about  ?  Is  it  possible  you  have  let  her  disappear, 
without  any  knowledge  of  her  whereabouts  ?  " 

He  had  never  spoken  in  this  manner  to  his  wife 
before ;  Ruth  controlled  her  voice,  and  her  feel- 
ings ;  he  was  evidently  either  terribly  angry,  or 
terribly  alarmed.  "  Judge  Burnham,  you  forget ; 
had  I  any  right  to  control  her  movements,  or  power 
to  intercept  them  ?  " 

"  Right  !  power  !  You  do  not  know  what  you 
are  saying  !  I  tell  you  you  should  have  locked 
her  in  her  room,  if  need  be,  rather  than  let  her 
slip  away"  — 

She  interrupted  him.  "Judge  Burnham,  you  are 
speaking  very  loud,  and  unnecessarily  exciting  the 
servants  ;  I  am  expecting  Minta  every  moment ; 
you  surely  know  it  is  nothing  unusual  for  her  to 
be  late  ;  meantime,  Seraph  is  very  ill." 

At  this  information,  Mr.  Satterley  gave  a  start 
of  dismay.  "  Seraph  !  "  he  echoed,  "  what  is  the 
matter?"  But  Judge  Burnham's  excitement  was 
not  quieted. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  "  he  said  irritably,  "  illness  is 
the  very  least  of  our  calamities  ;  if  the  other  one 
were  sick  with  the  small-pox,  even,  we  should  have 
cause  for  thanksgiving.  I  tell  you  I  am  afraid  she 
has  gone  to  destruction.  The  fellow  has  escaped 
us,  somehow ;  just  when  we  thought  we  had  the 


STORMY    WEATHER.  2IQ 

net  securely  laid  ;  he  received  information  from 
some  source,  and  has  disappeared.  When  did 
Minta  go  ?     What  did  she  take  ?" 

At  which  point  he  turned  abruptly  and  strode 
through  the  hall  into  the  library.  Ruth  waited 
only  to  answer  a  few  of  Mr.  Satterley's  anxious 
questions,  then  followed  her  husband.  He  had 
gone  to  his  dressing  room  ;  the  exclamation  which 
he  gave,  the  moment  he  opened  his  toilet  case, 
brought  her  to  his  side.  He  had  a  sealed  letter  in 
his  hand,  from  which  he  tore  the  envelope  savagely. 
Ruth  looked  over  his  shoulder  as  he  read : 


Dear  Papa: 

I  was  going  to  tell  you  something  this  morning,  but  you  were 
in  such  haste  and  so  savage  that  I  hadn't  opportunity.  We  had 
planned  a  lovely  little  surprise,  Mr.  Hamlin  and  I ;  we  didn't  tell 
anvbody  about  it,  save  the  necessary  persons,  just  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing;  we  meant  to  have  a  very  original  entertainment  connected 
with  it  as  soon  as  you  reached  home;  but  you  have  quite  spoiled 
our  plans  by  your  fierceness.  And  since  I  am  a  dutiful  daughter, 
in  spite  of  your  insinuations  this  morning,  and  want  to  do  my  best 
to  obey-you  ;  and  since  it  is  quite  impossible  for  me  to  have  "no 
communication  in  any  form  with  any  person  by  the  name  of 
Hamlin,"  for  the  simple  reason  that  that  happens  to  be  my  own 
name,  I  will  do  the  next  best  thing,  at  which  you  so  kindly  hinted, 
and  take  myself  out  of  your  house  until  such  time  as  you  may 
wish  to  see  my  husband  and  myself.  If  you  really  need  proof  of 
my  statement,  you  might  consult  the  Rev.  Charles  Stevens,  rector 
of  St.  Stephen's,  who  lives  at  Souths'de,  near  the  Greene  Street 
Chapel.  An  obscure  little  place  in  which  to  be  married,  I  admit, 
but  the  fun  of  the  secrecy  lay  in  obscurity. 

Your  devoted  daughter, 

Minta  Burnham  IIami.in. 


220  STORMY    WEATHER. 

It  was  a  hard  blow  ;  I  am  sure  you  will  not  be 
surprised  that  Judge  Burnham  felt  it  too  in  his 
very  soul.  He  had  not  been  a  very  watchful 
father,  certainly,  when  his  children  were  young  ; 
he  had  almost  deserted  them,  with  a  disposition 
that  grew  out  of  pure  cowardice,  during  the  period 
of  their  disappointing  girlhood  ;  but  he  had  not 
lavished  time  and  attention  and  money  on  them 
for  the  last  half-dozen  years  for  nothing.  As  it 
began  to  dawn  upon  him  that  they  were  not  only 
to  be  endured,  but  were  actually  subjects  for  con- 
gratulation, his^ interest  in  them  deepened  ;  and, 
as  the  years  went  by,  and  they  became  objects  of 
general  admiration,  you  will  remember  his  pride 
in,  and  ambition  for  them,  knew  no  bounds.  All 
the  more  this  feeling  seemed  to  sway  him,  because 
it  came  with  the  force  of  a  discovery,  after  he 
had  resigned  himself  to  nothing  but  humiliation 
in  connection  with  them.  He  did  not  name  the 
feeling  pride,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  affection 
had  somewhat  to  do  with  it  ;  a  great  deal,  perhaps, 
during  these  later  years  ;  one  cannot  lavish  so  much 
on  any  person,  without  feeling,  to  say  the  least, 
a  deepening  interest  in  the  person,  and  besides, 
the  "  Burnham  blood  "  of  which  this  man  was  so 
fond,  was  certainly  in  their  veins.  Still  it  was  his 
pride  which  had  received  a  death  blow.  It  was 
bad  enough  to  have  the  name  of  a  man  who  proved 
to  be  not  only  a  villain,  but  an  unsuccessful  one, 
mentioned  in  the  daily  papers  in  connection  with 


STORMY    WEATHER.  221 

his  daughter.  He  had  even  thought,  during  this 
busy  day,  of  making  an  effort  to  suppress  the 
items  which  whenever  he  had  a  moment  of  leisure 
seemed  to  float  before  him.  Such,  for  instance,  as 
"  It  seems  that  young  Hamlin  spent  the  evening 
before  the  discovery,  in  company  with  Miss  Burn- 
ham,  the  youngest  daughter  of  Judge  Burnham  of 
the  firm  of  Burnham,  Bacon  &  Co.";  or,  "  It  is 
said  that  young  Hamlin  frequently  enjoyed  the 
hospitalities  of  Judge  Burnham's  elegant  home, 
and  presumed  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  his 
beautiful  daughters,"  or  any  other  of  the  dozen 
offensive  ways  of  gossiping  about  such  matters, 
which  newspaper  reporters  seem  so  thoroughly  to 
understand.  He  had  thought,  for  a  few  moments, 
quite  seriously  of  attempting  to  make  it  worth 
the  while  of  these  leading  reporters  to  keep  his 
daughter's  name  out  of  the  accounts,  but  had 
finally  abandoned  the  idea  as  beneath  his  dignity. 
"  After  all,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  what  does  it 
matter  ?  The  fellow  was  intimate  in  dozens  of 
leading  families  ;  and  that  he  admired  my  daughter 
so  much  more  than  any  of  the  others,  is  not  so 
unusual  a  thing  as  to  cause  surprise.  I  think  I 
will  let  this  part  of  the  annoyance  shape  itself 
as  it  may  ;  it  will  soon  be  forgotten."  And  he 
had  worked  the  harder  toward  getting  matters  in 
train  for  the  grand  expose.  And  then  had  come 
that  sudden  discovery  of  flight  ;  a  flight  accom- 
plished so  boldly  and  gracefully  as  to  awaken  no 


222  STORMY    WEATHER. 

suspicion  in  the  minds  of  any  looker-on,  that 
more  than  an  afternoon  ride  with  the  lady  of 
his  choice  was  being  planned.  And  then  had 
followed  Judge  Burnham's  unspoken  fears,  that 
the  lady,  about  whom  there  seemed  to  be  very 
contradictory  accounts,  might  be  his  daughter ; 
though  he  really  did  not  believe  that  such  a  thing 
was  possible  ;  he  believed  that  the  young  lady's 
pride  would  hold  her  back  from  such  a  step  ;  and 
then  had  come  the  rush  home,  to  relieve  what  he 
told  himself  were  perfectly  groundless  fears  ;  that 
a  man  like  that  of  course  had  intimacies  with 
women  of  whose  very  names  a  daughter  of  his 
was  ignorant  ;  and  then  had  come  this  final  blow, 
in  the  shape  of  a  half-comic,  wholly  heartless 
letter,  with  that  name  attached,  "  Minta  Burn- 
ham  Hamlin  !  ,:  The  unsullied  Burnham  name 
linked  at  last  with  that  of  a  gambler  and  a  forger! 
Certainly  the  father  was  to  be  pitied  !  A  great 
deal  of  work  had  to  be  done  in  the  next  few  days ; 
much  that  Judge  Burnham  had  labored  hard,  all 
that  first  day,  to  accomplish,  he  labored  equally 
hard  to  prevent,  in  the  days  immediately  follow- 
ing. The  man  who  was  his  daughter's  husband, 
who  had  joined  his  name  and  story  irrevocably  to 
hers,  was  to  be  dealt  with  differently,  if  possible, 
from  the  one  who  had  simply,  under  a  mistaken 
idea  of  his  character,  been  admitted  to  the  house 
as  a  passing  acquaintance.  It  was  not  that  Judge 
Burnham  felt  any  softening  of  heart,  any  pity  for 


STORMY    WEATHER.  223 

the  daughter  who  had  so  wronged  him  ;  his  efforts 
were  not  so  much  to  shield  her,  as  to  keep  the 
Burnham  name  as  much  away  from  the  public  as 
possible.  Therefore  he  withdrew  charges  which 
he  had  meant  to  push,  and  was  silent  where  he 
had  meant  to  speak  plainly,  and  paid  large  sums 
of  money  to  purchase  the  silence  of  others,  in 
regard  to  certain  points.  Therefore  it  was,  that 
by  dint  of  tremendous  effort,  not  only  on  his  part, 
but  on  the  part  of  others,  friends  of  young  Hamlin, 
and  by  processes  known  to  lawyers,  this  breaker 
of  the  laws  escaped  the  verdict  of  justice,  and 
was  able  to  take  up  his  abode  in  the  same  city 
where  his  evil  deeds  had  largely  been  accom- 
plished. Thus  much  settled,  Judge  Burnham 
took  exceeding  pains  to  have  it  understood  that 
his  motive  for  his  share  of  the  work  had  not  been 
pity  for  the  sinner,  but  pity  for  himself  ;  that 
now  he  was  quite  through  with  the  whole  matter. 
Mrs.  Hamlin  was  no  longer  to  be  considered  as  a 
daughter  of  his  ;  he  did  not  want  to  see  her  again, 
nor  to  hear  of  her  in  any  way  ;  she  had  chosen 
between  them,  and  must  abide  by  the  decision. 
He  ordered  certain  trunks  and  boxes  to  be  packed, 
and  sent  by  express,  to  the  boarding  house  where 
the  newly  married  couple  were  now  staying,  and 
with  them  sent  a  note,  briefer  than  the  one  Minta 
had  written,  but  in  every  sense  of  the  word  digni- 
fied, in  which  he  had  distinctly  stated  that  from 
this  time  forth  all  communication  between  her  and 


224  STORMY    WEATHER. 

the  family  to  which  she  had  heretofore  belonged, 
was  to  cease  ;  that  he  had  done  what  he  could  to 
save  her  husband  from  the  prison  life  which  he  so 
richly  deserved  ;  and  that  in  doing  this,  he  had 
performed  the  last  service  for  one  who  was  once 
his  daughter,  that  she  need  ever  expect  at  his 
hands. 

This  was  hard  on  the  young  scoundrel  of  a 
husband ;  he  had  not  so  reasoned  it  out,  when 
all  these  plans  were  formed  in  his  mind.  He  had 
not  known  Judge  Burnham  in  the  days  when  his 
daughters  were  ignored  and  neglected  ;  he  had 
believed  that  the  father's  heart  was  inextricably 
wound  about  this  beautiful  daughter,  in  particular; 
and  that,  after  a  few  angry  words,  and  a  few  tears 
and  a  few  sobbing  petitions  on  her  part  for  for- 
giveness, she  would  be  restored  to  her  place  again, 
aud  his  falling  fortunes  be  retrieved  and  set  on 
a  firm  basis.  He  had  meant  that  this  should 
be  done  without  other  unpleasantness  than  would 
necessarily  be  involved  in  learning  that  there  had 
been  a  private  marriage  ;  he  had  intended  that 
the  Burnham  wealth  should  save  him  from  a 
public  exposure ;  it  had  been  the  lawyer's  vigor- 
ous onslaught,  during  that  one  day,  which  had 
brought  about  the  end  with  a  precipitancy  entirely 
unnecessary.  That  Judge  Burnham  might  have 
avoided  all  this  publicity,  had  been  made  only  too 
plain  by  the  speed  with  which  he  quieted  the 
storm  he  had  raised,  the  moment  he  found  that 


STORMY    WEATHER.  225 

his  own  name  must  suffer  —  in  only  a  secondary 
degree  —  whatever  disgrace  came  to  the  name  of 
Hamlin.  It  was  all  bitterness,  and  weariness  of 
soul  ;  and  Judge  Burnham  aged  under  it. 

Meantime,  perhaps  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  his 
angry  spirit  that  Seraph  continued  very  seriously 
ill,  and  that  he  had  to  put  aside  his  bitter  thoughts, 
and  hurt  pride,  and  think  of  and  help  care  for  her 
in  many  ways. 


226  WAITING. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


WAITING. 


\ 


FOLLOWING  all  this  turmoil,  and  pain,  and 
anxiety  came  a  let  up.  The  severity  of 
Seraph's  disease  spent  itself,  or  the  skill  of  the 
doctor  triumphed  ;  the  professional  nurse  went  her 
way ;  she  was  too  important  a  factor  in  this  dis- 
ease-stricken world  to  spend  her  time  in  coaxing 
back  to  ordinary  health  again,  one  from  whom  the 
immediate  danger  threatening  had  been  withdrawn. 
Other  homes  were  waiting  for  her,  where  anxious 
mothers  and  fathers  stood  helplessly  about,  build- 
ing all  their  hopes  of  happiness  on  the  efforts  that 
doctor  and  skilled  nurse  were  making.  Such  a 
life  has  its  compensations  ;  one  could  see  that  the 
nurse  was  used  to  these  experiences,  hungered  for 
them  almost.  From  the  first  hour  when  her  skilled 
eye  detected  the  watched-for  change  for  the  better 
in  Seraph,  her  interest  in  her  began  to  abate ;  and 
when  the  doctor  told  her  of  a  case  of  typhoid,  that 
was  in  very  special  need  of  services  such  as  hers, 
she  was  in  almost  heartless  haste  to  be  gone.  It 
was  a  sickly  spring,  and  professional  nurses  were 


WAITING.  227 

in  demand.  With  her  went  much  of  the  comfort 
of  Seraph's  room,  and  nearly  all  of  Ruth's  peace  of 
mind. 

An  ordinary  nurse  who  could  be  depended  upon 
to  give  the  invalid  thoughtful  care,  seemed  well- 
nigh  impossible  to  secure  ;  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  Judge  Burnham  offered  such  fabulous 
wages  that  the  kitchen  entrance  was  besieged  all 
day  with  applicants,  there  was  some  hopeless  ob- 
jection to  every  one  of  them  ;  of  the  few  who  were 
tried  as  a  last  resort,  not  one  stayed  through  the 
third  day,  and  still  the  slow  convalescence  went 
on,  and  the  interviewing  of  applicants  mingled 
with  Ruth's  heavier  duties  of  trying  to  reign  in 
the  invalid's  room.  Nothing  more  utterly  weary- 
ing had  ever  come  to  her  than  this  period  of  rest- 
less waiting  and  distasteful  working.  There  were 
days  when  her  life  seemed  almost  unbearable  ;  she 
had  had  tastes  of  such  different  work  ;  she  had  so 
rested  herself  in  those  Sabbath  temperance  meet- 
ings ;  she  had  been  so  helped  by  the  weekly  meet- 
ings for  prayer  ;  she  had  felt  that  in  these  directions 
lay  work  that  she  could  accomplish  in  the  name  of 
the  Lord  whom  she  loved.  She  chafed  under  this 
utter  removal  from  such  influences,  and  questioned 
wearily  as  to  why  it  should  have  been  permitted. 
During  the  sharpness  of  Seraph's  illness,  under 
the  pressure  of  possible  danger,  she  had  not  felt 
in  this  way ;  but  to  be  obliged  to  spend  her  time 
in  trying  to  play  the  part  of  nurse  to  an  exacting 


228  WAITING. 

invalid  who  did  not  enjoy  her  ministrations,  or, 
leaving  Kate  in  charge  —  who  was  trying  to  do 
double  duty  —  go  to  the  kitchen  and  question  and 
cross-question  an  applicant,  whom  she  felt  with 
that  acute  inner  consciousness  which  a  woman 
much  disciplined  in  this  way  comes  to  possess, 
would  not  do  at  all ;  or,  if  her  summons  came, 
instead,  from  the  parlor,  say  over  again  for  the 
dozenth  time  that  day,  "  We  think  she  is  gaining 
slowly,  thank  you,"  or,  "she  is  not  quite  so  well  to- 
day, had  a  restless  night,"  or  yet  another  phase  of 
the  same  story,  "she  is  about  as  she  was  yesterday, 
thank  you  ;  we  see  very  little  change  from  clay  to 
day  ;  she  will  not  get  much  strength,  we  fear,  until 
settled  weather  ;  "  all  this  was  wearying  to  her  in 
the  extreme.  Neither  was  she  when  doing  her 
utmost  a  successful  nurse  ;  with  the  most  earnest 
desire  to  be  kind  and  thoughtful,  she  did  not  under- 
stand the  hundred  little  things  that  can  never  be 
taught,  and  which  help  to  make  the  difference 
between  the  successful  attendant  and  the  good- 
hearted  bungler.  For  instance,  she  had  an  exas- 
perating fashion  of  bringing  the  utterly  distasteful 
business  of  eating  before  the  sick  girl,  by  the  use 
of  that  irritating  question,  "  What  will  you  have 
for  your  dinner  to-day?"  or  that  almost  equally 
trying  one,  "  Don't  you  think  you  could  take  a 
little  chicken  broth  now  ?  " 

Ruth  had  never  been  sick  in  her  life,  with  that 
depressing  sickness  and  weakness  that  continues 


WAITING.  229 

day  after  day,  though  the  disease  has  been  van- 
quished ;  she  knew  nothing  by  experience  about 
the  nervous  state  of  mind  and  stomach  that  impels 
an  invalid  under  such  circumstances  to  say,  "  No,  I 
don't  want  any  chicken  broth,  either  now,  or  ever  ; 
and  you  will  be  kind  enough  never  to  mention  the 
words  to  me  again."  So  she  went  on  with  her 
honest  attempts,  and  privately  thought  Seraph  the 
most  childish,  as  well  as  the  most  disagreeable  of 
invalids,  because  she  was  irritable  and  capricious 
over  the  veriest  trifles. 

Moreover,  this  choice  nurse  made  that  trying 
mistake  of  reasoning  from  her  own  standpoint, 
instead  of  attempting  to  put  herself  in  the  sick 
one's  place  ;  and  because,  when  she  was  sick  her 
head  ached,  and  the  light  was  unpleasant  to  her, 
she  was  always  drawing  the  curtains,  and  screening 
the  fire,  and  making  the  room  dim  and  quiet,  when 
Seraph's  head  did  not  ache,  and  her  eyes  were 
strong,  and  she  hated  dark  rooms,  and  one  of  her 
employments  which  she  best  liked  was  to  watch  the 
glowing  coals  in  the  open  grate  fire.  All  these 
little  things  made  it  harder,  both  for  Seraph  and 
for  Ruth.  The  latter  had  still  another  anxiety 
that  was  in  its  way  harder  than  any  of  the  others. 
During  these  days  she  saw  comparatively  little  of 
Erskine ;  she  could  not  even  attend  to  his  lessons, 
which  had  been  one  of  the  pleasures  of  her  life  ; 
it  was  useless  to  undertake  to  interest  a  child  in 
a  reading  lesson,  when  she  was  liable  to  be  called 


230  WAITING. 

three  or  four  times  in  the  course  of  the  half-hour 
to  the  kitchen,  or  the  sick  room,  or  the,  parlor  ; 
moreover,  the  half-hour,  even,  in  which  to  com- 
mence this  pleasant  work  was  very  hard  to  secure. 
It  was  not  that  there  was  so  much  to  do ;  if  there 
had  been  crowding  employment  for  hands  and 
mind,  it  would  have  been,  in  a  sense,  easier ;  it 
was  the  wearing  thought  that  when  she  was  down- 
stairs she  ought  perhaps  to  be  up,  and  that  when 
she  went  for  a  little  walk  with  Erskine,  she  ought, 
possibly,  to  be  at  home,  that  tried  Ruth's  nerves 
to  their  utmost ;  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  way 
out  of  the  maze  ;  daily  was  Erskine  left  to  the  care 
of  a  servant,  to  an  extent  that  his  sheltered  life 
had  not  known  before. 

Neither  was  her  husband  a  source  of  strength  to 
this  much  tried  woman.  She  saw  little  of  him,  it 
is  true  ;  he  seemed  more  than  ever  engrossed  in 
business  ;  but  that  little  was  most  unsatisfactory. 
He  was  moody,  even  with  Erskine,  and  disposed  to 
be  as  nearly  fault-finding  as  his  habit  of  courtesy 
would  allow  with  Ruth  herself. 

Despite  an  evident  attempt  not  to  do  so,  he  still 
let  his  thoughts  linger  much  over  their  recent 
family  disgrace  ;  too  gentlemanly  to  blame  Ruth 
in  distinct  language,  he  yet  made  frequent  refe-r- 
ences  to  the  misfortune  of  his  having  been  from 
home  just  at  that  time  ;  to  the  certainty  that  he 
could  have  discovered  what  was  going  on,  and  been 
able  to  prevent  it  ;    he  hinted  that  if  her  friends 


WAITING.  231 

had  been  more  outspoken,  less  afraid  of  involving 
themselves  in  uncomfortable  consequences,  all  the 
misery  might  have  been  saved.  He  openly  de- 
clared that  the  mistake  of  their  lives  had  been  in 
not  keeping  close  guard  over  Minta  on  that  last 
day. 

Ruth,  who  had  great  pity  for  him  in  her  heart, 
because  she  believed  that  the  father's  heart  must 
have  received  a  blow  something  akin  to  what  it 
would  be  to  her  if  Erskine  should  desert  her,  held 
herself  entirely  quiet  during  those  outbursts,  not 
even  once  reminding  him  that  if  he  had  long  ago 
heeded  the  plain  warnings  of  her  friends,  instead 
of  sneering  at  them,  all  might  have  been  well  ;  but 
it  was,  perhaps,  not  in  human  nature  not  to  re- 
member this  fact,  and  say  it  over  occasionally  to 
herself. 

Nor  was  he  particularly  sympathetic  with  his 
wife  over  her  home  burdens  ;  he  did  not  realize 
what  the  daily  strain  was  to  her  ;  he  assured  her 
that  she  was  extremely  foolish  not  to  have  all  the 
help  she  needed  ;  that  it  was  nonsense  to  suppose 
that  plenty  of  help  could  not  be  had  ;  he  could  al- 
ways secure  as  many  men  servants  as  he  wanted, 
that  there  was  no  reason  in  her  being  so  exacting  ; 
and  that  Seraph  ought  not  to  be  indulged  in  her 
whim  of  taking  violent  dislikes  to  persons  without 
reasonable  excuse  ;  and  on  the  whole,  Ruth  de- 
cided that  the  less  he  knew  about  home,  at  this 
time,  perhaps  the  better  it  would  be  for  them  both. 


232  WAITING. 

So  the  wearing  days  went  on,  Seraph  seeming 
neither  to  gain,  nor  to  lose,  and  the  future  stretch- 
ing out  before  them  apparently  as  barren  of 
comfort  as  the  present. 

Of  course  some  change  must  come  to  them  ; 
they  always  came  sooner  or  later;  nothing  ever 
stayed  for  any  length  of  time  just  as  it  was,  but 
what  would  the  change  be  ? 

It  came  in  an  unexpected  manner ;  perhaps  that 
is  the  common  way  in  which  they  come. 

Dr.  Westwood  followed  Mrs.  Burnham  from  the 
invalid's  room,  one  morning,  where  he  had  been 
giving  his  usual  sentences  intended  to  be  cheering, 
to  the  effect  that  it  would  not  always  be  March, 
nor  even  early  in  April,  and  that  the  warm  spring 
days  would  come,  before  many  weeks,  when  housed- 
up  people  could  venture  forth  into  strength-giving 
air  and  sunshine  ;  and  then  he  had  called  for  the 
usual  glasses  and  spoons,  and  made  his  mixtures, 
and  given  his  directions,  and  said  his  courteous 
"good-morning,  "  and  then  followed  Ruth  as  she 
went  away,  in  answer  to  a  summons  from  down- 
stairs, and  as  the  door  of  Seraph's  room  had  closed 
after  him,  had  said,  "  I  would  like  a  word  with  you, 
Mrs.  Burnham,  if  you  please."  And  Ruth  had 
halted,  and  thrown  open  the  door  of  Judge 
Burnham's  up-stairs  study,  and  followed  him  in, 
somewhat  wonderingly.  Dr.  Westwood  was  not 
one  of  her  favorites  ;  they  exchanged  as  few  words 
as  possible. 


WAITING.  233 

He  closed  the  door  carefully,  and  drew  a  chair 
for  the  lady,  then  came  directly  to  the  point. 

"  I  do  not  know,  madam,  what  your  views  may 
be  in  regard  to  plain  speaking,  under  the  circum- 
stances in  which  we  find  ourselves ;  I  always 
leave  such  matters  to  the  family ;  my  responsibili- 
ties are  sufficiently  heavy,  without  shouldering 
them  ;  I  think  Miss  Burnham  is  entirely  deceived. 
Is  it  your  will  that  she  should  remain  so?" 

"  I  do  not  understand, "  faltered  Ruth,  her  face 
growing  pale  over  she  knew  not  what.  Was  it 
possible  that  Dr.  Westwood  meant  Mr.  Satterley, 
and  was  there  a  new  shadow  coming  over  this  much 
tried  home,  even  now  ? 

"  Why,  of  course  you  know,  my  dear  madam, 
that  it  is  only  a  question  of  time,  and  a  much 
shorter  time  than  I  had  at  first  supposed  ;  but 
Miss  Burnham  evidently  looks  forward  confidently 
to  regaining  her  health." 

"And  do  you  mean  — do  you  think  she  will  not 
recover  strength  eventually  ?  I  do  not  know  what 
you  mean,  Dr.  Westwood  !  " 

"  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  know  that  the  disease 
is  what  is  sometimes  called  quick  consumption ; 
and  that  it  is  making  rapid  advance  ? " 

"  You  do  not  mean,  doctor,  that  she  is  going  to 
die  ! " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Burnham;  I  did  not 
know  that  you  also  were  deceived ;  I  have  been 
very  abrupt." 


234  WAITING. 

There  was  both  dismay  and  pity  in  his  voice, 
for  the  pallor  of  Ruth's  face  was  very  apparent 
now,  and  in  her  surprise  and  consternation,  she 
felt  giddy  and  faint  ;  she  reached  forward  for  the 
chair  she  had  declined,  and  leaned  against  it. 

"No  matter,"  she  said,  "tell  me  plainly  now, 
what  you  mean ;  if  I  understand  you,  we  have  cer- 
tainly been  very  much  deceived." 

"There  is  little  more  to  tell,  "  he  said,  speaking 
gently,  and  evidently  greatly  surprised  over  her 
manner  of  receiving  his  news  ;  "  I  will  be  perfectly 
frank,  as  is  my  custom,  when  the  circumstances  of 
the  case  will  admit. 

"  Miss  Burnham  may  linger  through  the  late 
spring,  but  this  morning  I  have  my  doubts  even 
as  to  that ;  she  is  failing  more  rapidly  than  I  had 
supposed  probable ;  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  it 
might  not  be  the  wish  of  the  family  to  have  her 
kept  in  ignorance  of  the  true  nature  of  her  dis- 
ease. I  had  not  supposed  that  Judge  Burnham 
and  yourself  shared  her  hopes,  and  that  must  ac- 
count for  an  abruptness  which  I  can  plainly  see 
has  been  cruel  ;  I  beg  you  will  forgive  me,  and  un- 
less I  can  serve  you  in  some  way,  I  will  not 
intrude  longer." 

He  was  very  polite,  very  ceremoniously  kind, 
and  he  bowed  himself  away,  and  within  the  next 
hour  told  a  brother  physician  that  the  gossip  which 
had  been  afloat  so  long  about  Mrs.  Burnham  and 
her   step-daughters   not   getting   on    comfortably 


WAITING.  235 

together,  was  all  false  ;  so  far,  at  least,  as  the  sick 
one  was  concerned  ;  that  he  had  rarely  seen  an 
own  mother  more  overwhelmed  with  the  news  that 
her  daughter  was  going  to  die,  than  was  Mrs. 
Burnham. 

He  was  right  ;  Ruth  was  overwhelmed.  No 
thought  of  such  a  conclusion  as  this  had  entered 
her  mind  since  those  first  days  when  Seraph  had 
been  acknowledged  to  be  alarmingly  ill ;  when  the 
disease  had  reached  its  crisis,  Ruth  had  supposed 
the  danger  passed  ;  and,  all  unused  to  illness  as 
she  was,  had  continued  ignorant,  even  in  the  daily 
presence  of  a  disease  which,  to  the  experienced 
eye  of  the  physician,  was  making  rapid  advance. 
She  was  more  than  overwhelmed  ;  she  was  dis- 
mayed. Seraph  Burnham  going  to  die !  to  die 
soon  !  Why,  it  was  appalling !  Could  any  one  be 
more  unready  for  death  than  she.  ?  How  was  it 
possible  for  one  like  her  to  go  up  before  the 
Judge  !  It  seemed  to  Ruth,  afterwards,  that,  dur- 
ing: that  first  half-hour  after  the  doctor  left  her 
alone,  she  came  face  to  face  with  a  realizing  sense 
of  death,  and  the  judgment,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life !  And  the  thought  that  a  soul  with  which 
she  had  had  to  do  for  years,  was  going  swiftly  for- 
ward into  those  scenes,  all  unprepared,  seemed 
almost  to  paralyze  her  with  terror. 

She  could  not  give  way  to  these  feelings  long. 
There  was  much  to  be  clone  ;  she  had  forgotten 
her  summons  to  the  kitchen  ;  had   forgotten  also 


236  WAITING. 

that  the  sick  one  was  left  alone  ;  but  she  was  not 
left  long  in  forgetfulness.  An  imperative  summons 
came  to  her,  and  sending  Kate  to  Seraph,  she 
put  aside  her  strange  terrors  as  best  she  could, 
and  tried  to  listen  coherently  to  the  voluble  tongue 
whose  owner  had  presented  herself  in  the  hope  of 
being  engaged  as  nurse  and  attendant.  All  the 
time  the  bewildered  mistress  was  saying  to  her- 
self, "  She  will  not  do  ;  she  will  not  do  at  all ;  if 
there  were  no  other  reason,  she  is  not  the  person 
to  attend  one  who  is  going  to  die." 

When  at  last  she  had  schooled  herself  into  out- 
ward calm,  and  forced  herself  to  return  to  Seraph, 
that  young  lady  threw  her  again  into  consternation. 

"Mamma,"  she  said,  turning  on  her  couch  and 
looking  full  into  Ruth's  face,  "  I  heard  the  doctor 
ask  to  speak  to  you,  this  morning,  and  I  know  it 
was  something  about  me;  it  would  be  a  great 
satisfaction  to  me  if  you  would  tell  me  just  what 

he  said." 

How  was  this  appeal  to  be  answered  ?  Ruth 
had  not  thought  about  it  ;  she  had  put  it  away 
sternly  as  something  which  must,  among  other 
grave  things,  be  decided,  but  not  until  she  had 
time  to  think  ;  here  it  was  confronting  her,  and  it 
could  be  answered  now  only  by  dismayed  silence. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  be  treated  like  a  child,"  said 
Seraph,  speaking  coldly.  "  If  the  doctor  had  any 
information  to  give  which  concerned  me,  I  think 
he  might  have  given  it  directly  to  me  ;   but  since 


WAITING.  237 

he  did  not  choose  to  do  that,  I  ask  you  as  a  favor 
to  tell  me  exactly  what  he  said." 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Ruth  hurriedly,  startled 
at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  "  I  will  tell  you  at 
another  time,  not  now ;  I  haven't  time  now,  that 
is,  I  have  not  thought  how  to"  —  and  there  she 
stopped.  What  a  terrible  bungle  she  was  making 
of  this  terrible  thing !  Oh  !  what  ought  she  to  say  ? 
If  there  were  only  some  one  else  to  take  this  awful 
responsibility.  Still  Seraph  questioned  her  with 
those  great  beautiful  eyes.  "  You  have  almost 
told  me,"  she  said,  "  you  might  as  well  finish  ;  he 
says  I  am  not  going  to  get  well.  Isn't  that  it  ? 
Now  tell  me  this  ;  does  he  think  I  am  going  to 
die  soon  ?  " 

"  He  thinks,"  said  Ruth,  and  her  lips  trembled, 
"  he  is  afraid  —  O,  Seraph  !  " 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Seraph.  "  I  understand  ; 
you  need  not  tell  me  any  more  ;  go  away,  and 
leave  me  alone."  And  she  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall,  and  lay  perfectly  still 


238  BELATED    WORK. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

BELATED    WORK. 

THE  days  that  immediately  followed  this  rev- 
lation  were  strange  ones  to  Mrs.  Burnham. 
Long  afterwards  she  looked  back  upon  them,  and 
wondered  that  her  over-strained  brain  did  not  reel 
under  the  intensity  of  the  excitement. 

Her  life  had  been  unusually  shielded  from  any 
experiences  connected  with  death.  Her  father,  it 
is  true,  had  lingered  in  his  sunny  room  on  the 
borders  of  the  other  world  for  weeks,  but  Ruth's 
daily  visits  to  him  were  filled  with  not  only  the 
tenderest  but  the  brightest  memories  ;  always  he 
was  in  the  sunshine ;  ready  to  cheer  and  en- 
courage her  ;  so  full  of  bright  anticipations  for 
himself,  that  it  had  not  seemed  possible  to  think 
of  the  word  death  in  connection  with  him,  and  the 
final  scene  had  been  such  a  jubilant  entering  in, 
that  she  could  only  feel  afterward  as  though  she 
had  a  glimpse  of  eternal  life. 

But  this  was  different  —  so  utterly  different. 
It  was  not  that  Seraph  made  any  visible  sign  of 
fear,  or  of  rebellion  ;  such  was  not  her  nature  ;  but 


BELATED    WORK.  239 

that  she  had  a  fierce  battle  to  fight  in  her  own 
heart  was  only  too  apparent. 

Her  face  changed  alarmingly  in  the  course  of  the 
next  few  days  ;  took  on  the  worn,  haggard  look  of 
extreme  illness  and  anxiety,  and  wrung  Mrs.  Burn- 
ham's  heart  whenever  she  saw  it  with  a  pain  unlike 
any  that  she  ever  felt  before.  A  human  soul  in 
peril,  and  she  the  only  person  near  who  knew  the 
one  sure  way  for  safety,  yet  feeling  powerless  to 
lead  to  it.  She  was  made  to  feel,  during  those 
first  days,  that  she  had  managed  the  trust  that  the 
doctor  had  imposed  on  her  in  an  utterly  irrational 
manner. 

Judge  Burnham  was  at  first  angrily  incredulous  ; 
it  was  utter  nonsense  that  a  girl  who  had  been  in 
splendid  health  up  to  the  time  when  she  had  caught 
a  violent  cold  should  sink  into  a  rapid  consumption. 
That   disease  was    not   in   the    Burnham    family  ; 
they  were,  as  a  family,  noted  for  strong  constitu- 
tions.    The  thing  was  incredible ;  Westwood  was 
nervous,  or  careless,  or  mistaken,  at  least ;    they 
must  have  counsel  ;    he  wondered  that  the  physi- 
cian had  not  attended  to  this  before  if  he  really 
feared  danger.     And  a  solemn  council  of  eminent 
physicians  was  held,  although  Dr.  Westwood  as- 
sured the  father  that  in  his  judgment  it  was  unnec- 
essary and  useless.     So  indeed  it  proved  ;    there 
was  no  dissenting  voice.     Dr.  Westwood,  on  his 
p.irt,  expressed  himself  privately  to  Mrs.  Burnham 
as  being  extremely  shocked    over  the  effect  that 


24O  BELATED    WORK. 

the  news  had  had  upon  his  patient,  and  did  not 
hesitate  to  say  that  he  feared  she  had  been  too 
abrupt.  The  only  reply  he  made  to  her  explana- 
tion that  Seraph  had  overheard  his  own  words,  and 
precipitated  the  tidings  upon  herself,  was  to  gravely 
repeat  his  fear  that  she  had  been  too  abruptly  told, 
and  to  wish  that  they  had  kept  their  knowledge  to 
themselves.  As  for  her  husband,  he  angrily  blamed 
her  for  exciting  Seraph  in  any  such  manner  ;  said 
he  should  have  supposed  her  judgment  might  have 
served  her  better  than  that.  But  Ruth  could  for- 
give much  to  the  disappointed  father  during  these 
trying  days  ;  these  were  his  daughters,  and  in 
strangely  different,  and  in  strangely  unthought-of 
ways  he  was  losing  them  both.  Meantime,  there 
came  into  her  heart  a  genuine  pity  for  Mr. 
Satterley.  Let  him  be  what  he  would  —  a  subject 
only  for  contempt  heretofore —  there  was  no  deny- 
ing the  fact  that  the  dignity  of  a  terrible  sorrow 
was  upon  him.  He  came  and  went  a  dozen  times 
a  day,  always  with  that  look  of  misery  deepening 
about  him,  which  told  of  a  sudden  and  bitter  dis- 
appointment settling  down  on  his  soul. 

Ruth,  watching  him,  being  waylaid  many  times 
during  the  day  to  answer  his  eager  questions,  felt 
convinced  for  the  first  time,  that  at  least  one  thing 
in  his  life  had  been  genuine.  He  loved  the  woman 
who  was  now  his  promised  wife.  Was  this  swift 
coming  sorrow  a  portion  of  his  retribution  for  the 
past  ?     Her  manner  toward  him    grew  gentle,  al- 


BELATED    WORK.  24 1 

most,  in  spite  of  herself ;  he  might  have  been 
guilty  of  that  which  had  led  her  to  despise  him, 
but  he  was  suffering  now  too  greatly  to  make  her 
want  to  add  one  feather's  weight  to  the  blow. 

So  she  took  care  to  speak  an  encouraging  word 
when  she  could,  and  let  voice  and  manner  tell 
him  that  her  heart  ached  over  his  burden,  and 
grew  nearer  to  liking  him  during  these  brief  en- 
counters than  she  had  imagined  it  possible  she 
ever  could. 

And  still  she  carried  about  with  her  hourly,  a 
burden  different  from  that  of  others,  but  heavy 
and  bitter.  How  to  reach  this  girl,  whose  life  was 
slipping  so  rapidly  away  ;  how  to  help  her  with 
that  important  suggestion  of  Infinite  help,  before 
it  should  be  forever  too  late  —  this  was  the  question 
and  the  longing  that  so  grew  upon  her  that  it  was 
becoming  almost  insupportable.  Could  she  bear  to 
live,  and  walk  about  these  familiar  rooms,  and  order 
their  belongings,  reminded  all  the  time  of  one  who 
had  been  with  her,  years  and  years,  and  had  gone, 
and  feel  that  because  of  her  unfaithfulness  the 
going  had  been  rayless  of  hope  ? 

A  professional  nurse  was  installed  once  more  ; 
the  disease  having  now  taken  a  sufficiently  serious 
form  to  awaken  the  respect  of  those  important 
persons.  Ruth  had  more  leisure,  and  less  respon- 
sibility ;  more  time,  therefore,  to  break  her  heart 
over  what  she,  alone  of  all  that  household,  felt  and 
feared.     She  betook  herself  to  prayer.     Such  eager, 


242  BELATED    WORK. 

longing  cries  for  this  soul  as  it  seemed  to  her  the 
Lord  must  hear  ;  and  of  course  he  heard  ;  but  his 
answer  was  to  reveal  to  her  herself. 

The  scales  that  had  blinded  her  for  years  fell 
off,  and  she  realized  only  too  plainly  that  much  of 
the  unhappiness  of  her  life  she  had  brought  upon 
herself.  She  had  done  her  duty  by  her  husband's 
daughters,  "good  measure,  pressed  down,"  often- 
times "  running  over  "  ;  but  she  had  never  loved 
them,  nor  tried  to  love  them.  She  had  mentioned 
their  names  many  times  in  her  prayers,  but  she 
had  never  prayed  for  them  in  her  life,  with  the 
heart-wrung  cry  with  which  she  now  almost  hourly 
brought  this  one  to  the  notice  of  the  Healer.  It 
came  at  last  to  be  almost  the  cry  of  Israel  of  old, 
"  I  will  not  let  Thee  go  except  "  —  realizing,  oh  !  so 
fully  her  mistakes,  realizing  that  had  she  lived  be- 
fore them  a  different  life  in  every  way,  both  of 
these  who  had  made  her  life  miserable  might  be 
to-day  living  for  Christ  ;  yet  she  cried  out  to 
the  great  Physician,  "  Nevertheless,  for  thy  sake, 
Lord." 

It  was  several  days  after  she  had  begun  to  pray 
in  this  manner  that  her  anxiety  expressed  itself  in 
words.  She  was  alone  with  Seraph,  the  nurse 
having  taken  advantage  cf  a  quiet  hour,  to  secure 
some  much-needed  rest. 

She  began  by  almost  timidly  suggesting  that  the 
pastor  of  the  church  at  the  corner  had  called  the 
clay  before,  and   indeed   called  often  ;    would  not 


BELATED    WORK. 


243 


Seraph,  some  morning  when  she  was  feeling  pretty- 
well,  like  to  have  him  come  up  and  see  her  ? 

Silence  followed,  lasting  so  long  that  Ruth 
thought  her  question  was  not  going  to  be  an- 
swered ;  then,  in  a  cold,  constrained  voice :  "  I 
don't  know  why  I  should  care  to  see  him.  I  do 
not  feel  in  the  least  acquainted  with  him  ;  the  only 
time  I  ever  saw  him  alone,  was  that  day  he  called, 
when  you  were  not  at  home,  and  Kate  thought  you 
were  ;  and  he  spent  ten  minutes  in  asking  me  about 
the  last  concert  ;  which  soprano,  in  my  judgment, 
was  the  better,  and  whether,  on  the  whole,  I 
thought  Miss  Nelson's  voice  was  as  good  as  her 
cousin's,  who  used  to  sing  that  part  ;  I  don't  feel 
any  particular  desire  to  see  him.  1  have  lost  my 
interest  in  concerts." 

It  all  came  over  Ruth  then,  so  pitifully  —  the 
pale  face,  save  for  those  fateful  spots  of  crimson 
high  on  the  cheeks,  the  hollow-sounding  voice 
which  told  only  too  plainly  that  the  singer  would 
sing  no  more  ;  the  short  breath,  which  made  her 
pause  frequently  between  even  short  sentences, 
and  the  apathetic  voice,  hinting  of  interest  lost 
in  almost  everything.  She  had  meant  to  be  very 
quiet,  very  careful  about  exciting  her  charge,  and 
she  was  not  given  to  tears  ;  nevertheless,  they  filled 
her  eyes  now,  as  she  came  over  to  the  invalid  chair 
which  was  stretched  back  almost  like  a  bed,  and 
knelt  beside  it  and  touched  the  white  hand  lying 
idly  on  her  lap,  and  spoke  low,  and  tremulously  : 


244  BELATED    WORK. 

"  Seraph,  I  want  to  say  something  to  you  ;  I  feel, 
oh  !  more  than  I  can  ever  express,  how  far  short  of 
all  that  I  ought  to  have  been,  I  have  seemed  to 
you.  I  have  lived  before  you  the  Christian  life 
in  such  a  way  as  to  lead  you  to  feel  that  there  was 
no  reality  in  it,  and  no  comfort  to  be  had  from  it  ; 
and  as  though  I  cared  little  whether  you  walked 
that  way  or  not.  This  I  realize,  and  I  want  to 
tell  you  what  a  mistake  it  all  is  ;  there  is  a  vital 
personal  union  with  Christ  which  is  able  to  make 
up  for  the  loss  of  all  other  things  ;  there  is  a 
heaven  so  glorious  that  we  cannot  even  in  our 
wildest  flights,  imagine  it  ;  I  know,  for  I  saw  my 
father  bid  good-by  to  this  world,  and  the  glory  on 
his  face  as  the  light  of  the  other  dawned  upon 
him,  was  not  to  be  mistaken  ;  then  I  know,  by  my 
own  experience,  that  Christ  is  able  to  give  such 
strength  and  comfort  as  are  to  be  found  nowhere 
else ;  and  if  I,  such  a  miserable  Christian  as  I 
have  been,  can  be  sure  of  this,  and  I  am,  ought 
you  not  to  believe  it  ?  If  I  could  tell  you  how  I 
long  to  have  you  take  the  rest  which  this  Friend 
stands  ready  to  offer,  if  I  could  give  you  any  idea 
of  the  consuming  desire  I  have  to  see  you  sheltered 
in  his  arms  of  love,  and  have  Him  undo  some  of 
the  mischief  which  my  cold  and  careless  life  has" 
done,  I  almost  think  you  would,  in  very  pity  for 
me,  turn  your  thoughts  and  hopes  to  Him." 

It  was  not  what  she  had  meant  to  say  ;  there 
was  not  a  word  spoken  of  all  that  which  she  had 


BELATED    WORK.  24  5 

lain  awake  and  planned,  the  night  before.  It  had 
not,  at  that  time,  seemed  to  Ruth  wise  to  speak 
of  herself  at  all,  for  she  believed  that  Seraph 
was  too  indifferent  to  her  to  care  what  she  felt ; 
and  here  she  was  almost  basing  her  plea  on  the 
strength  of  the  pain  which  she  felt  for  this  dying 
girl! 

Neither  was  the  answer  she  received  in  any 
degree  what  she  had  planned  for.  She  had  thought 
that  there  might  be,  possibly,  indignation,  or  sar- 
casm, or  coldness  ;  or  perhaps  no  attempt  at  reply  ; 
and  indeed  this  last  seemed,  for  a  few  moments, 
what  was  to  be. 

Seraph  lay  back  and  looked  at  her,  with  no  trace 
of  emotion  on  her  face,  with  apparently  no  quicken- 
ing of  her  pulses  ;  yet  presently  she  spoke,  slowly, 
in  a  half-curious  tone,  as  one  might  who  was  mak- 
ing out  a  puzzle  :  — 

"  I  almost  believe  you  have  been  in  earnest  all 
the  time.  I  thought  your  religion  was  a  sham  ; 
worn  as  one  would  wear  a  fashionable  dress, 
because  in  your  very  high  and  exclusive  circle 
it  was  the  fashion  not  to  be  fashionable  in  a 
worldly  way,  but  to  be  religious.  I  did  not  think 
you  cared  whether  Minta  and  I,  or  even  papa,  ever 
had  any  religion  or  not  ;  save  so  much  for  papa  as 
would  admit  him  into  the  fashionable  exciusiveness 
where  you  belonged  ;  we  didn't  think  you  wanted 
us  there  ;  but  I  half  believe  we  were  mistaken  all 
the  while." 


246  BELATED    WORK. 

These  sentences  were  spoken  slowly,  almost 
impersonally ;  as  if  she  were  not  referring  to 
herself  and  that  other  woman  who  knelt  before 
her. 

But  Ruth  was  too  intensely  in  earnest  now  to 
have  this  strange  language  or  this  utterly  indiffer- 
ent manner  prevent  her  message. 

"  I  do  not  wonder,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not  wonder 
at  anything  which  the  mistakes  of  my  past  life 
may  have  led  you  to  think  ;  it  has  all  been  wrong. 
I  was  never  a  hypocrite  ;  I  was  simply  a  half- 
hearted Christian  ;  yet  half-way  as  I  was,  I  tell 
you  in  all  sincerity  I  could  not  have  lived  my  life 
at  all,  it  seems  to  me,  without  Christ.  What  I 
want  now  more  than  anything  else  in  life  —  so 
much  that  it  seems  to  me  I  would  willingly  die 
to  secure  it  —  is  to  have  you  give  yourself  into  his 
keeping,  and  learn  from  Him  all  that  He  can  be 
to  a  soul.  O,  Seraph  !  will  you  do  this  ?  Will  you 
forget  all  about  me,  and  turn  your  thoughts  to 
Him  ?  " 

Again  there  was  no  response.  Seraph's  eyes 
were  dry  and  her  face  composed,  though  her  step- 
mother's was  wet  with  fast-falling  tears.  A  long 
time  it  seemed  to  the  excited  woman  that  she 
waited,  not  daring  to  say  more,  to  other  ears  than 
God's,  but  praying,  oh !  in  an  agony  of  appeal  for 
an  answer  of  peace. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  mamma,  who  I  should  like  to  have 
come  and  stay  with  me  a  little  while  ;  and  that  is 


BELATED    WORK.  247 

Susan  Erskine."  That,  at  last,  was  the  answer 
she  received. 

Ruth  rose  up,  then,  brushing  the  tears  hastily 
from  her  face,  and  in  that  instant  she  was  shown 
another  revelation  of  her  heart.  She  thought  she 
had  been  to  its  utmost  depths  ;  but  in  the  light 
of  this  experience  she  saw  that  she  had  not  only 
wanted  this  soul  saved,  but  had  wanted  the  Master 
to  let  her  be  the  instrument  in  His  hands  ;  and 
that  it  hurt  her  to  have  herself,  in  effect,  pushed 
aside,  and  another  messenger  called  after.  It  was 
an  instant's  revelation,  and  the  sudden  revulsion 
of  feeling  which  it  caused  passed  almost  as  quickly 
as  it  had  come. 

"  It  is  a  good  thought,"  she  said  humbly. 
"  Susan  could  help  you ;  she  always  helped  me. 
She  is  teaching,  but  perhaps  a  substitute  could  be 
found.  I  will  write  to  her  this  evening ;  no,  I  will 
have  your  father  telegraph,  if  you  like  ;  that  will 
save  you  from  so  long  waiting  ;  I  feel  almost  sure 
she  can  arrange  to  come." 

"  Then  send  for  her  ;  she  is  the  only  one  I  can 
think  of  in  the  world  whom  I  would  like  to  see." 
And  Seraph  had  turned  her  head  away  from  her 
mother,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

Then  the  nurse  came,  and  Ruth  went  away — ■ 
went  to  her  own  room,  and  locked  the  door,  and 
went  on  her  knees.  She  spoke  no  audible  word  ; 
but  knelt  there  long,  and  rose  up  quieted. 

Money  is  a  potent  factor  in  this  world.     Susan 


248  BELATED    WORK. 

Erskine  was  three  hundred  miles  away  ;  was  hold- 
ing an  important  position  in  an  important  school ; 
and  it  was  in  the  middle  of  the  term.  When  Judge 
Erskine  died,  and  the  old  home  was  broken,  many- 
plans  had  been  discussed  as  to  what  would  be  done. 
Ruth  wanted  Susan,  and  would  have  been  willing 
to  agree  to  almost  any  arrangement  which  would 
keep  her  in  the  family  ;  but  no  one  knew  better 
than  Susan  that  the  mother  would  not  be  at  rest 
in  Judge  Burnham's  household.  That  she  did  not 
fit  it  gracefully,  and  that  she  jarred  on  the  nerves 
of  the  master,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  on  the 
mistress  as  well,  although  her  heart  was  full  of 
grateful  love  toward  her  now.  Susan  did  not  dis- 
cuss many  plans;  she  kept  her  own  counsel;  but 
had,  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  announced  that 
mother  and  she  were  going  back  "home";  to 
the  neighborhood  where  they  had  lived  so  long  ; 
that  her  old  position  was  waiting  for  her,  and 
mother  had  many  friends  there,  and  in  every  re- 
spect she  believed  it  would  be  best.  And  Judge 
Burnham  had  said  that  Susan  Erskine  was  the 
most  sensible  woman  of  his  acquaintance ;  that 
he  had  always  thought  so.  Nevertheless,  he  sent 
the  telegrams  which  Ruth  suggested,  with  prompt- 
ness, and  added  other  and  expressive  ones  about 
the  importance  of  having  the  invalid's  wishes  re- 
spected ;  and  about  the  fact  that  any  salary  desired 
might  be  offered  for  a  substitute,  if  Susan  would 
but  come  ;  so  Susan  came. 


BELATED    WORK.  249 

To  her  mother,  she  said,  — 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  go  ;  for  I  used  to  have 
influence  with  the  poor  girl  ;  and  now  that  she  is 
going  to  die,  I  may  be  able  to  help  her." 

"Of  course  you  ought  to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Erskine. 
"  What  are  schools,  where  they  teach  grammar 
and  things,  when  a  body  comes  almost  to  the  end, 
and  needs  the  kind  of  help  that  we  were  put  into 
the  world  to  give  ?  Poor  thing  !  what  an  everlast- 
ing pity  it  is  that  she  put  off  the  only  important 
work  in  life  until  life  was  pretty  nigh  over.  But 
there  !  I'd  'a'  done  the  same,  myself,  poor  fool 
that  I  was,  and  would  be  doing  it  yet,  I  dare  say, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  father.  And  to  think 
that  maybe  that  girl  will  see  him  in  a  little  while  ! 
I  could  most  feel  like  asking  her  to  take  a  message 
for  me,  if  I  was  going  along.  I'm  getting  to  be 
an  old  woman,  Susan,  and  I  do  feel  kind  of  home- 
sick after  your  father  once  in  a  while,  now  that's 
a  fact  ;  it  isn't  as  though  I  had  had  him  all  his 
life,  you  know,  for  I  hadn't  ;  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  wasted  time." 

And  Susan,  who  had  steadily  given  her  life  to 
the  care  and  comfort  of  her  mother,  smiled  on  her 
cheerily,  and  said,  — 

"  Never  mind,  mother,  you  and  father  will  have 
time  enough  together  to  make  up  for  it  all,  one  of 
these  days." 

"That's  the  living  truth,"  said  the  old  lady  with 
a  smile  on  her  homely  face,  suggestive  of  the  peace 


25O  BELATED    WORK. 

of  heaven  ;  and  while  she  trotted  about,  packing 
her  daughter's  trunk,  she  sang  in  a  quavering 
voice,  and  on  a  high  key,  — 


"  When  we've  been  there  ten  thousand  years 

Bright  shining  as  the  sun  ; 
We've  no  less  days  to  sing  His  praise, 

Than  when  we  first  begun." 


TRANSFORMATION.  251 


CHAPTER   XXI. 


TRANSFORMATION. 


BUT  because  Susan  Erskine  came,  Mrs.  Burn- 
ham  did  not  therefore  find  herself  banished 
from  the  invalid's  room.  Instead,  she  was  drawn 
there  more  than  before  ;  and,  indeed,  from  the  hour 
when  she  made  her  pitiful  appeal  to  Seraph,  the 
two  had  seemed  to  be  on  a  different  footing ; 
no  further  words  had  passed  between  them,  but 
Seraph  had  seemed  less  indifferent  to  her  coming 
and  going,  and  had  shrunken  less  from  receiv- 
ing attentions  at  her  hands.  She  even  smiled 
occasionally  on  her  now,  and  once  inquired  as  to 
whether  her  incessant  coughing,  the  night  before, 
had  disturbed  her  mother.  It  was  not  usual  for 
Seraph  to  appear,  at  least,  to  care  who  was  dis- 
turbed by  her. 

At  another  time  she  said,  smiling  gratefully  on 
Susan  who  was  arranging  pillows  in  that  deft  way 
which  some  attendants  seem  to  know  by  instinct, 
and  others  never  learn,  "  It  is  so  nice  to  have  Susan 
here,  mamma  ;  it  was  so  good  of  you  to  think  about 
it,  and  bring  it  to  pass." 


252  TRANSFORMATION. 

All  these  little  things  were  very  unlike  Seraph. 

Moreover,  as  the  days  passed,  Ruth  distinctly 
saw  another  change  ;  unmistakably,  Seraph's  face 
was  taking  on  that  look  of  rest  and  peace  which 
can  come — at  least  at  such  times  as  those  she 
was  rapidly  nearing  —  from  only  one  source.  The 
haggard  lines  were  being  smoothed  ;  the  apparent 
apathy  which  had  followed  the  days  of  unnatural 
excitement,  was  also  gone  ;  she  had  roused  to 
some  degree  of  interest  in  the  affairs  of  others. 
She  inquired  for  Erskine,  who  had  long  been 
banished  from  the  sick  room,  because  his  sister 
had  no  desire  to  see  him,  and  he  now  made  daily 
visits.  Occasionally,  his  happy  little  laugh  was 
heard  to  ring  out  from  the  sick  room,  and  when 
some  one  went  in  haste,  lest  the  invalid  should  be 
disturbed,  she  would  be  found  smiling  on  him. 
Yet  these  were  days  full  of  solemnity  to  Ruth  ; 
she  had  never  before  lived,  as  it  were,  in  the 
presence  of  a  soul  at  the  time  when  it  opened 
the  door  and  let  in  the  Heavenly  Guest;  she  had 
never  before  watched  the  process  of  transforma- 
tion go  on.  It  might  have  been  unusually  rapid 
in  this  case,  because  the  time  was  short ;  but 
Ruth  stood  often  awed  before  it  ;  this  marvelous 
change  of  even  the  lines  on  the  wasting  face. 
"And  the  hardness  of  his  face  is  changed." 

She  came  to  that  verse  one  morning  in  her 
somewhat  hurried  reading,  and  stopped  over  it  as 
something  which  she  had  never  seen  before ;  and 


TRANSFORMATION.  253 

thought  of  it  the  instant  she  entered  Seraph's 
room,  an  hour  afterwards.  "  It  is  true,"  she  said 
within  herself;  "the  'hardness'  of  her  face  is 
changed;  that  exactly  describes  the  process." 
Then  she  wondered  if  any  infidel  had  ever  watched 
this  steady  change  in  a  human  face,  and  what  he 
thought  could  be  at  work  in  the  heart,  transform- 
ing the  life. 

"Conformed  to  his  image,"  this  was  another 
sentence  over  which  she  had  lingered,  and  which 
she  applied  afterwards,  feeling  awe-stricken. 

What  an  amazing  thing  it  was  that  this  girl 
should  be  singled  out  from  the  family  for  such  an 
experience,  such  an  honor  as  this !  "  Getting 
ready  to  go  abroad."  Those  words  were  spoken 
in  her  hearing,  one  day,  in  regard  to  an  acquaint- 
ance of  Seraph's ;  and  Ruth  thought  of  it  con- 
stantly as  the  days  passed.  "  So  is  she,"  she  said 
to  herself,  looking,  the  while,  at  Seraph;  "get- 
ting ready  to  be  presented  at  court !  Oh  !  more 
than  that ;  she  is  the  bride  getting  ready  for  the 
bridegroom  and  the  palace.  What  a  marvelous 
thing  it  is  !  How  do  we  ever  succeed  in  thinking 
about,  or  caring  for  anything  else,  with  this  in 
view  ? "  And  the  fascinations  of  that  room  in- 
creased upon  her.  It  was  not  that  Seraph  said 
much,  said  anything,  indeed,  except  to  Susan,  in 
the  confidential  talks  which  Ruth  knew  they  had ; 
it  was  rather  that  Ruth  allowed  her  imagination 
full    play  when  she  was  in  the  presence  of    this 


2j4  transformation. 

one  who  was  evidently  slipping  away  from  earth. 
Others  beside  herself  saw,  or  felt  the  changes  : 
Mr.  Satterley,  who  had  obstinately  refused  to 
believe  that  nothing  could  be  done  for  the  sick 
one,  and  had  hoped  against  hope,  and  begged  that 
this  remedy  and  that  might  be  tried,  and  such  and 
such  an  authority  consulted,  followed  Ruth  from 
the  room  one  morning,  when  it  had  seemed  to  her 
that  Seraph  looked  unusually  quiet  and  reposeful, 
and  dropping  into  a  chair  at  the  further  end  of  the 
hall,  gave  himself  to  a  perfect  abandonment  of 
grief.  "I've  given  up,"  he  said  when  at  last  he 
could  speak  ;  "  I  could  not  believe  it  possible  that 
she  was  not  going  to  get  better;  but  I  can  see 
that  she  isn't ;  some  strange  change  has  come  to 
her ;  she  is  not  like  herself ;  she  talks  as  though 
she  did  not  even  care  to  get  well.  Can  anything 
have  happened  to  make  her  tired  of  living ;  to,  to 
—  change  her  so  ?  " 

"It  isn't  that,"  Ruth  said;  "it  isn't  that  she  is 
tired  of  this  life,  but  "  —  and  then  she  attempted  to 
speak  the  King's  language  to  this  man  of  alien 
birth.  He  did  not  understand  her ;  he  was  per- 
plexed, pained,  almost  angry  that  anything  should 
or  could  reconcile  this  woman  whom  he  loved  to 
satisfying  her  soul  with  another  love  ;  could  make 
her  willing  to  glide  away  from  him  into  a  mysteri- 
ous world. 

Gradually  there  was  coming  to  be  a  very  pleasant 
understanding   between    Mrs.    Burnham    and    her 


TRANSFORMATION.  255 

step-daughter.  Seraph  smiled  on  her,  now,  in 
return  for  service,  and  sometimes  said  "Thank 
you,"  in  grateful  tones  ;  and  once  she  caught  her 
hand  and  said  earnestly,"  You  were  right,  mamma ; 
there  is  One  who  can  make  up  for  the  loss  of 
everything  else ;  it  seems  very  strange  that  He 
should  be  willing  to  do  it  for  me,  but  He  is,  and 
has,  and  I  knew  you  would  be  glad." 

After  that  Ruth  looked  at  her  and  thought 
about  her  with  a  feeling  which  might  almost  have 
been  called  envy.  This  young  woman,  who  a  few 
days  ago  had  spoken  of  Jesus  as  though  he  were 
an  indifferent  stranger,  now  evidently  belonged  to 
him  in  a  sense  of  which  she,  the  disciple  of  years, 
knew  nothing.  Why  should  her  education  pro- 
gress so  fast?  What  was  there  in  Heaven  for  her 
to  do,  that  she  should  be  so  swiftly  hurried  through 
the  earth  journey,  and  sheltered  in  the  sunny 
home  ?  It  was  new  experience  in  every  way  to 
Ruth,  and  she  studied  it,  and  prayed  over  it,  and 
spent  as  much  time  as  she  could  with  the  one  who 
had  seemed  suddenly  to  rise  to  heights  above  her ; 
to  draw  closer  each  day  to  the  Great  Source  of 
strength  and  power.  They  had  little,  half-confi- 
dential talks  together  sometimes,  Seraph  speaking 
out  suddenly,  after  long,  quiet  moments,  revealing 
in  a  brief  sentence,  perhaps,  glimpses  of  the  past 
which  were  very  revelations  to  Ruth  ;  making  her 
understand  what  she  had  had  to  contend  with 
in  her  hard  and  unsuccessful  struggle  with  life. 


256  TRANSFORMATION. 

"When  we  first  went  to  school,"  said  Seraph, 
"  the  girls  used  to  laugh  at  us  ;  they  thought  we 
could  not  be  serious,  Minta  and  I,  when  we  talked 
about  you,  and  told  how  kind  you  were,  and  what 
you  had  done  for  us,  and  how  much  you  planned 
for  our  pleasure.  They  made  all  sorts  of  fun  of  us 
when  they  found  that  we  really  meant  it  ;  they 
said  we  were  the  greatest  simpletons  they  had 
ever  met  ;  that  the  idea  of  step-mothers  really 
caring  for  grown-up  daughters  was  too  absurd  to 
be  credited  ;  that,  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  we 
were,  and  must  be,  rivals  ;  that  you  had  stolen 
papa  from  us,  and  we  must  take  the  consequences, 
of  course,  but  as  for  pretending  to  think  a  great 
deal  of  you,  that  was  too  silly  for  girls  as  old  as 
we  were,  and  a  great  deal  more  of  that  sort  of 
nonsense,"  would  Seraph  add,  somewhat  wearily, 
as  her  strength  began  to  fail.  "  It  was  most 
ridiculous  in  us  to  be  influenced  by  such  talk.  I 
cannot  think  how  we  came  to  be  such  idiots,  but 
we  were.  Poor  Minta  was  inclined,  I  think,  to 
have  a  low  opinion  of  the  world  in  general,  and 
being  constantly  under  such  influences,  and  hear- 
ing stories  all  the  time  about  unhappy  homes,  and 
heartless  second  mothers  —  there  were  half  a 
dozen  girls  in  the  school  who  were  step-daughters 
—  we  actually  came  to  believe  that  their  experience 
was  ours,  or  must  be,  in  the  course  of  time  ;  and 
we  came  home  prejudiced,  you  know,  or  with  eyes 
so  blinded  by  false  lights  that  we  could  not  see  the 


TRANSFORMATION.  257 

real.  We  have  been  very  hateful,  mamma,  but  we 
were  honestly  so." 

She  was  too  tired  to  say  more,  or  to  hear  other 
than  soothing  words.  "  Never  mind,"  the  step- 
mother said.  "  Don't  worry  over  it  now,  Seraph. 
I,  too,  have  been  to  blame — greatly  to  blame  ;  I 
can  see  it  plainly  now,  but  I  can  say,  like  you, 
that  I  was  honest.  I  meant  to  do  the  best  for  you 
that  I  could.  No,  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  talk 
any  more  ;  you  are  to  shut  your  eyes,  and  not  even 
think.  You  and  I  will  both  remember  that  we  be- 
long to  One  who  understands  hearts." 

But  when  she  was  alone  again,  the  step-mother 
went  all  over  it  in  sorrowful  indignation,  and  be- 
gan to  realize  as  she  had  not  before,  the  irrepa- 
rable mischief  that  false  and  foolish  tongues  had 
wrought  for  her. 

"  You  had  stolen  papa  from  us."  This,  in  brief, 
was  the  silly  and  false  idea  that  she  began  to  under- 
stand was  talked  before  children  about  their  second 
mothers,  until  it  was  little  wonder  that  they  came  to 
look  upon  the  relation  with  blinded  eyes,  as  Seraph 
had  said.  And  she,  who  had  rushed  into  it  with  such 
utter  self-abnegation,  such  determination  to  make 
home  what  it  should  be  for  these  two  daughters, 
had  ignored  the  world  and  its  false  tongues,  had 
held  herself  aloof  from  it,  and  been  so  determined 
to  win  by  the  superiority  of  her  own  plans,  that  it 
was  no  wonder  she  had  failed. 

"  I  could  have  loved  Seraph,"  she  said,  the  tears 


258  TRANSFORMATION. 

falling  fast ;  as  she  brushed  them  away,  "  I  could 
have  loved  her,  and  have  won  her  to  love  me,  if  I 
had  held  her  from  the  false  and  fashionable  world, 
and  held  up  Christ  before  her  with  such  power  as 
to  win  her  to  him." 

And  the  confidential  relations  so  long  in  estab- 
lishing themselves  between  these  two  grew  apace. 

"  Mamma,"  Seraph  began  one  day  when  they 
were  alone  for  a  moment,  "  there  is  something  I 
want  very  much,  and  I  do  not  know  whether  I  can 
have  it.  Did  you  ever  tell  papa  about  that  young 
woman  —  that  Estelle,  you  know  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Ruth  quickly,  her  face  flushing.  It 
had  been  one  of  her  anxieties  in  the  earlier  days  of 
this  sickness  that  she  had  not  done  so,  and  that 
she  could  not  determine  whether  she  ought  or  not ; 
of  late,  she  had  put  it  aside.  "  No  ;  I  have  never 
mentioned  the  matter  to  him  in  any  way." 

"  And  do  you  think  —  I  mean,  I  do  not  know  that 
there  is  any  need  for  doing  so  now.     Is  there  ? " 

There  was  a  marked  emphasis  on  the  word 
now.  It  was  putting  into  plainer  language  than 
she  had  before,  even  to  Ruth,  the  thought  that  she 
was  so  nearly  done  with  all  these  things  ;  that 
stories  about  them,  fraught  with  solemn  import 
but  a  few  months  ago,  could  be  allowed  to  drop 
quietly  into  silence.  Ruth  turned  toward  her, 
her  eyes  dim  with  tears,  and  her  voice  tremulous, 
but  she  answered,  — 

"  No  ;  I  do  not  think  there  is." 


TRANSFORMATION.  259 

"Well,  mamma,  I  want  to  see  her.  I  want  to 
have  a  little  talk  with  her  quite  alone,  and  not  have 
any  one  know  it.     Do  you  think  I  might  ? " 

Ruth  smiled  now,  a  loving,  in  fact,  a  thankful 
smile  ;  this  was  to  her  one  of  the  indications  of 
discipleship.     "  I'll  manage  it,"  she  said. 

And  that  afternoon,  having  sent  the  nurse  home 
fur  a  two  hours'  vacation,  she  said  to  Susan,  "  I've 
no  doubt  you  consider  yourself  authority  here,  but 
it  is  a  mistake  ;  you  are  under  orders.  I'm  in 
conspiracy  with  this  little  girl,  and  she  has  a 
young  friend  coming  to  see  her,  with  whom  she 
wants  to  talk  quite  alone.  We  are  both  to  be  ban- 
ished ;  I  shall  stay  in  the  next  room,  within  sound 
of  the  bell,  but  you  may  go  to  the  garden,  or  to 
the  music  room,  or  where  you  will,  so  that  you 
consider  yourself  banished  until  you  receive  a 
special  summons  hither." 

"  Very  well,"  Susan  said,  entering  into  the  as- 
sumed gaiety  of  the  moment  with  the  quick-witted- 
ness  of  one  who  understood  that  she  was  expected 
not  to  understand.  "  I  suspected  mischief  when 
you  were  so  anxious  to  have  the  nurse  take  a  holi- 
day, but  I  did  not  suppose  it  was  so  far-reaching 
as  this  ;  however,  I  am  all  submission." 

And  Seraph,  as  she  caught  Ruth's  eye,  smiled, 
and  said,  "  Thank  you,"  in  a  low  tone,  full  of 
meaning. 

For  an  hour,  the  two  of  whom  Mr.  Satterley 
had    asked    the    same    momentous    question,    and 


26o  TRANSFORMATION. 

received  from  each  a  solemn  Yes,  were  alone 
together.  But  what  the  favored  one,  who  yet  was 
going  away  to  a  country  whence  they  never  return 
to  fulfill  earthly  vows,  said  to  the  one  who  had 
been  cast  aside  for  her  sake,  is  known  only  to 
Him  to  whom  all  hearts  are  open.  It  was  Ruth 
who  met  the  young  girl  at  the  door,  when  she 
came  in  answer  to  her  summons,  and  showed  her 
to  Seraph's  room  ;  and  when,  an  hour  afterward, 
Seraph's  bell  rang,  it  was  Ruth  again  who  showed 
her  guest  out,  noting  only  that  her  eyes  were  red 
with  weeping. 

No  questions  were  asked  by  any  one.  Kate,  who 
had  met  the  girl  in  the  hall  below,  and  attended 
her  to  the  door,  volunteered  the  information  in 
the  kitchen,  that  it  was  "  some  young  thing  who 
was  fond  of  Miss  Seraph  ;  a  sewing  girl,"  she 
"guessed."  And  Susan,  who  knew  better  than 
most  persons  when  silence  was  golden,  said  noth- 
ing at  all.  As  for  Seraph,  the  only  word  she  had 
to  offer,  was  given  to  Ruth  as  she  took  the  glass 
of  water  from  the  wasting  hand.  Seraph's  cheeks 
glowed,  perhaps,  a  little  more  than  usual,  but  her 
eyes  were  bright,  and  there  was  no  hint  of  tears 
about  her  face  ;  she  laid  her  fingers  gently  on 
Ruth's  hand,  and  said,  "  Mamma,  thank  you." 
That  was  all. 

Mr.  Satterley  came  and  went  as  usual,  perhaps 
even  oftener  than  before,  and  his  face  still  wore 
the  same  haggard  look  of  pain  ;  and  Ruth,  watch- 


TRANSFORMATION.  26 1 

ingthem  both,  and  seeing  this  life  tragedy  drawing 
toward  its  close,  felt  more  sympathy  and  sorrow 
for  the  man  than  she  had  once  imagined  would  be 
possible. 

He  had  been  heartless,  and  yet  it  appeared  that 
he  had  a  heart,  and  that  he  was  being  taught  what 
it  was  to  suffer.  Not  long  after  this  there  came 
to  Ruth  another  appeal  for  help. 

"  Mamma,  I  wish  I  could  see  Minta." 

And  Ruth,  her  eyes  flashing  sudden  resolution, 
yet  kept  her  voice  quiet  as  she  said,  — 

"I  will  see  if  I  cannot  bring  that  to  pass  with- 
out more  delay." 

She  went  very  soon  thereafter  in  search  of  her 
husband,  feeling  angry  with  herself  that  she  had 
endured  so  long  the  present  state  of  things. 

In  order  to  understand  it,  you  will  need  to  be 
reminded  that  Judge  Burnham  had  always  been 
a  man  of  overweening  pride,  and  that  he  had 
allowed  himself  to  be  so  swayed  by  this  feeling 
as  to  be  at  times  incapable  of  controlling  it. 

That  his  heart  had  been  trampled  upon,  and 
rudely  stung  b}  his  daughter  Minta,  was  true  ; 
and  that  his  pride  had  received  such  a  blow  that 
he  could  not  rally  from  it,  was  also  true.  Smart- 
ing under  this,  you  will  remember  how  he  had 
issued  his  stern  mandate  that  his  second  daughter 
should  never  again  enter  his  door;  that  she  was 
from  this  time  forth  no  daughter  of  his,  and  he 
would  have  the  world  know  that  he  disowned  her. 


262  TRANSFORMATION. 

A  proud  man  is  also  a  very  obstinate  man,  and 
through  all  these  weeks  of  suffering,  and  fast  fail- 
ing bodily  powers  on  the  part  of  his  only  other 
daughter,  he  had  held  steadily  to  this  resolution, 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Seraph  had  herself 
appealed  to  him  to  be  allowed  to  see  her  sister. 

Anything  else  ;  nothing  that  money  could  buy, 
or  time  and  care  produce,  were  to  be  withheld. 
It  seemed,  as  the  days  went  by,  as  though  he  must 
have  spent  hours  in  studying  as  to  what  might 
tempt  Seraph's  tastes.  He  brought  home  delicacies 
which  she  was  too  ill  to  touch  ;  books  and  pictures 
that  she  could  only  smile  on,  wearily,  flowers  of 
so  rare  and  heavy  a  perfume  that  they  had  to  be 
banished  from  her  rooms,  to  give  her  air  ;  every- 
thing that  a  lavish  expenditure  and  highly  cult- 
ured tastes  could  furnish  was  at  her  command, 
save  this  one  wish  of  her  heart  to  see  and  talk 
with  the  sister  from  whom  she  had  never  before 
been  separated. 

Over  this  petition  he  shut  his  firm  lips  and 
shook  his  obstinate  head  !  Mrs.  Hamlin  was  no 
daughter  of  his,  and  therefore  of  course  could  be 
no  sister  of  Seraph's,  any  more. 

Yet,  on  this  morning  of  which  I  write,  his  wife 
went  down  to  him  in  his  private  study  with  deter- 
mination gleaming  in  her  eyes. 


DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE.  263 


CHAPTER   XXII. 


DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE. 


JUDGE  BURNHAM,"  she  said,  beginning  as 
was  her  habit,  without  circumlocution  of  any 
sort,  "  I  am  going  to  send  for  Minta,  to-day,  to 
come  to  her  sister.  Seraph  mourns  for  her,  and 
ought  to  have  her  wish.  I  will  wait  until  you 
have  gone  to  town  for  the  day,  if  such  is  your 
desire  ;  but  even  that  I  think  is  unwise  ;  however 
much  she  may  have  displeased  you,  Minta  is  still 
your  daughter,  and  this  is  her  father's  house  "  — 

He  interrupted  her  hastily.  "  I  have  explained 
to  you,  Mrs.  Burnham,  that  she  is  from  henceforth 
no  daughter  of  mine." 

His  wife's  voice  was  very  steady,  having  that 
determined  quality  in  it  which  helps  to  calm  some 
forms  of  excitement. 

"  But  that,  Judge  Burnham,  is  simply  nonsense  ; 
of  course  you  and  I  know  that  the  parental  relation 
is  not  one  which  can  be  put  on  and  off  at  will  ; 
Minta  is  a  disobedient  and  ungrateful  daughter, 
if  you  will,  but  she  is  still  your  daughter,  whether 
you  will  or  not  ;  you  can  treat  her  as  though  she 


264  DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE. 

were  nothing  to  you,  but  that  will  not  destroy 
the  relationship  ;  it  will  be  simply  yielding  to  the 
desire  to  act  an  unnatural  part.  Still,  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  send  for  her,  unless  you  think  you 
ought ;  I  simply  say  that  I  am  going  to  let  her 
know  to-day  how  ill  her  sister  is,  and  ask  her  to 
come  and  see  for  herself." 

"  And  what  if  I  say  that,  as  this  is  my  house, 
and  I  am  supposed  to  be  its  master,  I  forbid  any 
such  proceeding  ;  that  I  decline  to  allow  her  to  be 
invited  here  on  any  pretext  whatever  ?  " 

His  wife  came  toward  him  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his  arm  with  a  little  caressing  movement  peculiar 
to  herself,  and  not  often  indulged  ;  she  was  an 
undemonstrative  woman. 

"  Even  then,"  she  said,  very  gently,  "  I  should 
disobey  you,  because  I  know  your  true  self  better 
than  you  do  ;.  and  I  know  how  swiftly  the  days 
are  coming  when  you  would  bitterly  regret  such 
words.  Seraph  is  very  ill,  Judge  Burnham  ;  she  is 
failing  rapidly  ;  it  will  do  no  good  to  blind  your 
eyes  to  this  fact  ;  she  has  never  been  separated 
from  her  sister  before,  and  she  misses  and  mourns 
for  her  ;  it  is  unnatural  and  cruel  not  to  allow, 
and  even  urge  Minta  to  come  to  her,  under  such 
circumstances  ;  no  one  will  see  this  more  plainly 
than  you,  one  of  these  days  ;  it  is  simply  that  you 
do  not  realize  how  short  the  time  is." 

His  lips  quivered  almost  beyond  his  control 
when  he  spoke  again.     "  I  have  not  meant  to  be 


DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE.  265 

cruel,  but  I  have  been  cruelly  treated  ;  any  father 
would  admit  that  ;  still,  as  you  say,  we  do  not 
want  to  deny  Seraph  anything,  though  I  cannot 
think  she  is  so  ill  as  you  suppose  ;  she  seemed  to 
me  quite  bright  this  morning.  I  will  lay  no  com- 
mands on  you,  of  course.  I  did  not  mean  that,  but 
there  are  certain  things  that  must  not  be  expected 
of  me.  If  Minta  personally  cared  for  my  forgive- 
ness, she  could,  at  least,  ask  it  ;  could  say  that  she 
had  done  me  grievous  wrong ;  and  I  do  not  think 
until  she  does  so  much,  that  I  am  called  upon  to 
notice  her  in  any  way.  The  invitation  to  her  to 
call  here  must  not  come  from  me  ;  it  must  be  dis- 
tinctly understood  that  I  do  not  endorse  it ;  I 
merely  tolerate  it  for  Seraph's  sake.  And  one 
command  I  will  issue  :  that  man  whom  she  calls 
her  husband  must  not  step  his  feet  inside  my 
doors." 

His  voice  had  grown  stern  again,  and  as  he  had 
already  made  more  of  a  concession  than  Ruth 
had  expected,  and  as  she  could  see  no  reason  why 
any  consideration  should  be  shown  the  man  who 
had  deliberately  carried  out  a  plan  to  rob  a  home, 
she  made  no  reply  to  this  other  than  the  general 
one  that  of  course  she  would  carry  out  his  wishes 
as  well  as  she  could,  and  went  away  to  write  her 
note  to  Minta,  then,  to  tell  Seraph  what  she  had 
done,  and  to  regret,  for  the  next  four  or  five  hours, 
that  she  did  any  such  thing.  It  became  apparent 
that  Seraph  had  missed  her  sister  more  than  any 


266  DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE. 

of  those  about  her  had  realized,  and  the  hope  of 
seeing  her,  coupled  with  the  thought  of  the  long 
waiting  that  there  must  still  be,  unnerved  her  to 
such  a  degree  that  the  doctor,  when  he  made  his 
morning  call,  was  alarmed  at  the  state  of  her  pulse, 
and  scolded  the  nurse  roundly  for  allowing  her 
charge  to  be  excited  about  anything. 

All  this  added  greatly  to  Ruth's  anxiety  and 
dismay,  when  the  messenger  who  had  been  dis- 
patched with  her  note  returned,  bringing  a  written 
reply,  instead  of  the  girl  for  whom  she  was  now 
anxiously  watching.  It  was  addressed  to  herself, 
and  was  brief  and  to  the  point  :  — 

Mrs.  Judge  Burnham: 

Madam  : 
I  will  not  take  time  to  thank  you  for  the  extreme  courtesy  of 
your  remarkable  invitation  to  my  father's  house,  nor  to  explain  to 
you  how  fully  I  recognize  your  skillful  hand  in  it  all.  I  will  simply 
say  that  the  invitation  must  come  from  my  father,  and  must  include 
my  husband,  or  it  will  be  paper  wasted.  I  will  venture  to  send 
my  love  to  Seraph,  and  to  hope  that  she  will  soon  be  well  enough 
to  ride  into  town  and  visit  me,  when  I  will  promise  to  give  her  a 
much  more  cordial  greeting  than  I  should  evidently  receive  in  my 
father's  house. 

Yours,  in  vivid  remembrance, 

Minta  Burnham  Hamlin. 

Over  the  contents  of  this  letter  Ruth  stood 
appalled.  What  was  now  to  be  done  with  the  ex- 
cited invalid  ?  Judge  Burnham  was  away  for  the 
day  ;  she  did  not  even  know  just  where  to  reach 
him,  nor,  indeed,  if  he  were  at  home  could  much 


DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE.  267 

be  expected  from  him  immediately  on  the  receipt 
of  such  an  epistle  as  that.  While  she  was  still  in 
a  state  of  wretched  indecision  as  to  how  to  manage, 
Susan  came  in  search  of  her  ;  Seraph  had  asked 
for  her,  and  seemed  restless  over  her  prolonged 
absence  ;  so  Ruth  went  at  once,  and  was  immedi- 
ately questioned  :  — 

"  Mamma,  you  have  had  some  word  from  Minta, 
I  can  see  it  in  your  face.  Won't  you  just  let  me 
read  the  letter  for  myself,  if  she  wrote  ?  I  under- 
stand Minta  so  well  !  Things  that  might  sound 
strangely  to  you,  would  be  plain  to  me.  Will  you 
let  me  have  it,  mamma  ?  " 

All  this  was  so  unlike  the  Seraph  of  Ruth's 
acquaintance  that  she  felt  half  bewildered,  and 
without  more  ado,  gave  the  letter  into  her  hands. 
Then,  during  its  reading,  tormented  herself  as  to 
whether  this  were  not  the  very  worst  thing  that 
could  have  been  done. 

There  was  a  heightened  color  on  the  girl's  cheeks 
when  she  gave  it  back,  but  her  voice  was  steady. 

"  Never  mind,  mamma  ;  that  was  a  pretty  hard 
letter  for  you  to  read,  but  there  is  more  than  Minta 
involved  in  it.  He  will  not  let  her  come  ;  I  under- 
stand how  it  is.  He  has  a  very  great  influence  over 
her,  and  he  is  selfish  —  intensely  selfish.  I  used  to 
tell  her  that,  before  I  knew  that  she  cared  for  him  so 
much  ;  she  does  care,  mamma  —  it  isn't  all  naughti- 
ness. We  will  let  it  go  for  the  present  ;  she  does 
not  understand,  you  see.     She  thinks  I  am  going 


268  DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE. 

to  get  well,  and  come  and  see  her,  and  she  thinks 
if  she  holds  out,  papa  will  receive  him,  too  ;  in  a 
few  days,  perhaps,  we  can  make  her  understand 
how  it  is  with  me.  I  would  not  send  again,  mamma, 
for  papa's  sake ;  it  is  very  hard  for  him,  too,  and  I 
am  so  sorry.  How  very  different  things  get  to 
looking  in  a  few  weeks'  rime  !  We  have  both  made 
it  very  hard  indeed  for  you  and  papa,  and  we  did 
not  dream  it.  You  must  remember  that,  mamma  ; 
we  did  not  understand  at  all.  We  were  fools.  I 
wonder  if  Minta  will  wait  until  she  lies  where  I  do, 
before  she  realizes  it  ?  That  was  one  reason  why 
I  wanted  to  see  her." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Ruth  in  her  turn.  "  Do 
not  think  about  it  any  more  now  ;  you  are  tired, 
and  I  understand  ;  I  understand  much  better  than 
you  suppose  I  do.  There  are  two  sides  to  it  ;  I, 
too,  was  a  fool  in  many  ways,  and,  like  you,  I  did 
not  mean  it."  Then  she  stooped  and  kissed  the 
girl  for  the  first  time  in  years,  and  her  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears,  and  her  throbbing  heart  said, 
"  If  we  could  only  begin  all  over  again  from  the 
beginning  !  " 

Seraph  was  quieter  after  that.  The  sense  that 
Minta  had  refused  to  come  to  her,  and  had  replied 
only  with  insulting  words,  seemed  to  tone  her  im- 
patience to  see  her.  She  counselled  waiting  for  a 
day  or  two.  "  I  will  write  her  a  little  note  myself, 
to-morrow,  perhaps,"  she  said,  "if  I  am  strong 
enough,  and  then  she  will  understand  better  ;   and 


DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE.  269 

I  do  not  blame  papa  for  not  wanting  that  man  to 
come.  I  never  knew  anything  of  his  plans  ;  I  did 
not  think  he  would  dare  to  do  as  he  has.  Papa 
understands  that,  does  he  not  ?  "  And  Ruth  as- 
sured her  tenderly  that  papa  had  no  words  of 
blame  for  her.  But  Seraph  thought  much  about 
it  all  ;  this  was  evident,  from  the  words  she  fre- 
quently spoke  to  Ruth,  never  to  any  one  else. 
"  Mamma,  people  do  not  mean  all  the  things  they 
say.  You  know  that,  don't  you  ?  I  don't  know 
but  you  do  ;  I  have  come  to  think  so.  That  time 
you  said  you  were  sorry  for  me,  do  you  remem- 
ber—  when  you  told  me  about  Estelle  ?  I  know 
now  that  you  meant  it,  but  I  didn't  think  so  then. 
And  I  said  things,  many  and  many  a  time,  that  I 
did  not  mean.  I  did  about  her  ;  I  pretended  not  to 
care,  and  I  said  it  was  a  little  matter.  There  was 
not  any  of  that  true." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Ruth,  and  her  voice  was 
very  humble.  She  had  not  understood,  she  told  her- 
self ;  she  had  not  understood  this  girl  at  all  ;  she 
had  called  her  simply  heartless,  when  perhaps  her 
heart  was  breaking. 

There  was  another  who  insisted  on  knowing  just 
what  had  been  done  about  the  summons  to  Minta, 
and  on  seeing  her  reply  ;  and  had  tossed  it  down 
with  a  haughty,  "That  is  just  what  I  expected.  I 
hope  you  have  sufficiently  humiliated  us  before 
her,  and  will  be  content  to  let  her  take  the  road 
she  has  chosen." 


27O  DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE. 

"  Seraph  says  she  cannot  now  do  as  she  will," 
interposed  Ruth  meekly,  but  her  husband  answered 
her  only  by  a  sharp  "  Nonsense  !  "  And  remem- 
bering Minta's  determined  will  in  the  past,  she 
said  no  more.  It  is  possible  that  these  two  would 
both  have  been  wiser  could  they  have  heard  the 
words  that  passed  between  the  young  husband 
and  wife  on  the  receipt  of  Ruth's  note.  She  had 
worded  it  carefully,  trying  not  to  give  offense,  and 
at  the  same  time  to  make  plain  to  the  girl  that  she 
must  come  alone  ;  and  the  husband  had  thrown 
it  aside  with  much  more  vim  than  Judge  Burnham 
used  with  the  reply,  and  had  said  in  an  angry 
voice  :  "  Insufferable  woman  !  If  it  were  not  for 
her,  you  would  be  in  your  rightful  place  in  your 
father's  house  !  The  idea  that  she  should  dare  to 
tell  you  that  you  may  come  home,  but  you  must 
come  alone !  If  you  do  not  resent  that  with 
scorn,  you  are  more  of  a  coward  than  I  take  you 
to  be." 

"  I  wonder  if  Seraph  is  really  very  sick,"  faltered 
the  wife.  "  Do  you  hear  nothing  about  it  in  town  ? 
Couldn't  you  ask  some  one  ?  " 

"Sick!  Of  course  —  she  isn't;  it  is  simply  a 
ruse  to  get  you  away  from  me,  and  then  proceed 
to  crushing  me  !  That  precious  father  of  yours- 
could  do  it,  and  would  like  nothing  better,  es- 
pecially with  your  lovely  step-mother  to  crowd 
on." 

"  Oh  !  but,  Harold,  you  said  yourself  that  papa 


DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE.  2J\ 

withdrew  proceedings  against  you,  and  that  that 
was  the  reason  you  could  stay  in  town." 

"  Yes ;  and  why  did  he  do  it  ?  Because  I  was 
sharp  enough  to  get  hold  of  you.  He  would  have 
crushed  me  as  willingly  as  he  would  a  worm,  but 
for  that ;  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  impertinent 
interference  in  my  affairs  I  would  never  have 
gotten  into  such  an  intolerable  scrape.  He  may 
thank  himself  for  the  publicity  of  the  whole  thing. 
But  his  name  is  involved  now,  in  spite  of  himself, 
and  a  man  like  him,  who  is  all  but  consumed  with 
personal  vanity,  will  do  a  good  deal  for  the  sake  of 
shielding  one  who  belongs  to  him.  I  tell  you, 
Minta,  I  understand  all  this  perfectly  ;  he  has  a 
deep-laid  scheme  to  separate  us,  and  to  ruin  me ; 
he  has  power  enough  to  do  it,  even  though  I  am 
not  to  blame,  save  in  supposing  that  he  had  a 
heart.  I  don't  depend  on  that  organ  any  longer, 
I  assure  you,  but  I  do  on  his  pride.  When  he 
finds  that  you  can  be  as  firm  as  he  thinks  he  is, 
and  will  have  all,  or  nothing,  his  consuming  desire 
to  appear  well  in  the  eyes  of  the  community,  will 
get  control,  and  he  will  receive  us  both  in  the  way 
he  ought. 

"Send  back  such  an  answer  as  this  letter  de- 
serves, and  wait  patiently  ;  I  know  the  world,  and 
your  precious  father  has  a  very  large  share  of  it 
grown  into  the  place  which  he  calls  his  heart.  I 
do  not  believe  there  is  anything  the  matter  with 
Seraph  but  a  severe  cold  ;  in  fact,  I  know  there  isn't. 


272  DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE. 

She  can  come  to  us  in  a  few  days,  and  that  will  do 
much  to  smooth  the  way ;  it  will  not  look  well  to 
have  the  daughter  on  familiar  terms  with  us,  and 
the  father  not  speaking  to  us.  But  there  is  one 
thing  to  remember  "  —  this  last  sentence  was  added 
with  gathering  sternness,  as  he  saw  the  look  of 
doubt  and  anxiety  on  Minta's  face:  —  "mark  my 
words,  if  you  condescend  to  notice  them  in  any 
way,  so  long  as  they  ignore  me,  you  choose  be- 
tween us,  and  must  take  the  consequences.  I  say 
that  distinctly,  knowing  just  what  I  mean,  and  you 
know  that  I  am  a  man  of  my  word." 

He  a  man  of  his  word,  and  moving  at  large 
among  men  simply  because  of  the  forbearance  of 
those  to  whom  he  had  been  false  !  His  wife  knew 
this,  or  at  least  knew  that  he  was  in  disgrace  with 
business  men.  He  told  her  that  he  had  been  un- 
fortunate, and  that  it  was  her  father's  ill  will  that 
had  forced  evil  upon  him  ;  but  she  was  painfully 
conscious  of  the  fact  that  there  were  men  whom 
her  father's  ill  will  could  not  injure,  and  that  there 
was  something  very  wrong  about  it  all  ;  yet  with 
the  strange  and  pitiful  inconsistency  of  the  human 
heart,  she  felt  for  this  man  whom  she  yet  could 
not  quite  respect,  a  sentiment  which  in  her  igno- 
rance she  named  love  ;  and  it  held  her  in  submission 
now,  while  she  wrote,  under  his  guidance,  and 
partly  at  his  dictation,  the  letter  over  which  Ruth 
had  stood  appalled. 

Yet  she  cried  when  her  husband  left  her  alone, 


DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE.  2/3 

bitter  tears,  and  wished  she  could  see  Seraph 
"just  for  a  few  minutes  "  and  judge  for  herself 
whether  she  were  really  ill ;  and,  altogether,  was 
miserable  enough  to  have  moved  the  pity  of  a 
harder-hearted  man  than  Judge  Burnham. 

For  several  days  following  these  experiences  an 
apparent  change  for  the  better  seemed  to  be  taking 
place  in  the  sick  room.  Seraph  appeared  stronger 
than  she  had  for  some  weeks,  and  her  appetite 
that  had  almost  entirely  failed,  returned  ;  and  her 
father,  each  time  he  saw  her,  remarked  upon  some 
token  which  was  to  him  evidence  of  returning 
health.  As  for  Mr.  Satterley,  he  began  to  talk 
hopefully  of  the  marvelous  effects  that  a  pro- 
longed stay  in  California,  or  in  the  far  South, 
frequently  had  on  invalids,  and  to  hint  that  in  a 
few  weeks  Seraph  might  be  strong  enough  to  take 
the  journey  by  easy  stages  ;  and  only  the  doctor 
and  the  professional  nurse  fully  realized  that  they 
were  simply  passing  through  one  of  those  decep- 
tive lulls  so  common  to  the  disease  in  question. 

Meantime,  Susan  received  an  earnest  summons 
back  to  her  post,  and  Seraph  agreed  to  her  de- 
parture with  a  quiet  smile. 

"  We  shall  miss  you  very  much,"  she  said  cheer- 
fully, "but  I  do  not  need  you  in  the  terrible  sense 
that  I  did  before  you  came.  A  few  weeks  make 
such  a  difference  in  things  !  Everything  is  differ- 
ent; mamma  and  I  can  manage  nicely  together,  if 
you  ought  to  go." 


274  DAYS    OF    PRIVILEGE. 

So  Susan  kissed  her  —  long,  clinging  kisses  — 
and  whispered  good-bys,  and  went  away.  And 
Ruth  spent  long  hours,  to  be  always  remembered 
afterwards,  in  that  sick  room. 

There  was  often  about  the  room  now  an  atmos- 
phere which  awed  her,  —  it  was  growing  so  increas- 
ingly apparent  that  a  Presence,  unseen,  yet  potent 
in  His  influences,  had  taken  possession,  and  was 
steadily  transforming  this  life. 

There  were  moments  when  Ruth  would  stand 
looking  at  her  charge  almost  reverently,  absorbed 
in  the  thought  of  the  coming  changes.  "  She  is 
going  away,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  In  a  few  days 
she  will  see  the  Lord,  and  talk  with  Him  face  to 
face  ;  and  be  with  Him  forever  and  ever  !  A  few 
weeks  ago  she  did  not  know  Him  at  all ;  and  now 
she  has  gotten  so  far  ahead  of  me,  that  sometimes 
it  almost  seems  as  though  she  already  had  speech 
with  Him  such  as  I  cannot  understand.  It  is 
all  very  wonderful  !  And  these  are  my  days  of 
privilege  !  " 

And  I  may  also  make  an  exception  of  Mrs. 
Burnham  ;  for  she  knew,  as  well  as  did  the  doctor 
and  the  nurse,  that  in  a  very  little  while  Seraph 
Burnham  was  going  away. 


"o,  mamma!   good-by!"  275 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 
"o,  mamma!     good-by!" 

THERE  came  a  day,  and  it  came  suddenly  at 
the  last,  as  those  days  nearly  always  do, 
when  Mrs.  Hamlin  sitting  alone  and  discontented 
in  her  third-story  room  in  a  down-town  boarding 
house,  received  this  imperative  message,  brought 
by  a  special  messenger  boy  : 

If  you  want  to  see  Seraph  once  more,  you  must  come  imme- 
diately;   there  is  not  an  hour  to  lose.  Ruth  Burnham. 

Yet  even  then  she  was  not  prepared  for  the 
facts.  Her  husband  had  heard  reports  of  the 
marked  improvement  in  Seraph's  case,  and  had 
not  failed  to  repeat  them  to  his  wife,  without  at 
any  time  letting  her  know  the  serious  nature  of 
the  disease,  though  he  himself  was  well  aware 
of  it,  and  built  some  hope  on  the  fact  that  Judge 
Burnham  would,  before  very  long,  have  but  one 
daughter  left  to  him. 

He  had  carried  his  wife  out  of  town  with  him 
for  a  few  days,  the  better  to  keep  her  in  ignorance 
of  what  might  be  going  on  in  her  home,  and  also 


276  "o,  mamma!   good-by!*' 

to  prevent  the  possibility  of  her  being  urged  there 
without  him.  They  had  returned  but  the  night 
before,  and  he  had  been  gone  from  the  house 
but  a  few  moments  when  this  startling  summons 
came.  She  did  not  believe  it,  but  it  filled  her 
with  alarm.  What  if  Seraph  were  really  very  ill 
and  wanted  to  see  her,  could  she  ever  forgive 
herself  for  staying  away  ?  Besides,  she  longed 
so  for  a  sight  of  her  ;  and  she  believed  in  her 
heart  that  her  husband  was  not  only  cruel,  but 
foolish  in  keeping  them  apart.  What  possible 
harm  could  come  to  him  through  her  going  to 
see  her  sister  once  in  awhile  ?  Had  she  not  shown 
him  how  little  influence  her  family  had  over  her, 
as  compared  with  him,  when  she  left  them  at  his 
bidding  ?  While  she  was  thinking  these  thoughts 
she  made  swift  changes  in  her  dress,  having  taken 
a  resolution  to  go  home  at  once  and  learn  for  her- 
self just  how  much  she  had  to  fear.  She  was 
beginning  to  learn,  even  thus  early  in  her  married 
life,  that  her  husband  could  be  both  cruel  and 
false  ;  it  was  possible  that  he  was  being  false  to 
her  in  this  ;  she  would  see  for  herself. 

So  without  more  delay  than  was  necessary,  she 
stepped  from  the  train  at  the  old  familiar  station 
which  it  seemed  to  her  she  had  not  seen  before 
in  years,  entered  her  father's  carriage  which  was 
in  waiting,  and  was  driven  rapidly  to  her  former 
home.  No  one  met  her  at  the  door  ;  no  one  was 
waiting  to  receive  her  in  the  hall  ;  she  ran  rapidly 


"o,  mamma!   good-by  !  "  277 

up-stairs,  frightened,  and  yet  unbelieving.  Kate 
met  her  in  the  hall  above,  grave-faced,  low-voiced. 
"  You  can  go  right  in,"  she  murmured,  and  inclined 
her  head  toward  the  large  cheerful  room  at  the 
south  end,  and  Minta  pushed  open  the  door  noise- 
lessly, and  entered. 

She  had  thought  that  she  would  rush  at  once  to  her 
sister  and  wrap  her  arms  about  her  —  whatever  the 
faults  of  these  two  may  have  been,  they  had  loved 
each  other — but  she  did  not  do  as  she  had  planned. 
Instead,  she  stopped,  frightened,  in  the  doorway, 
her  breath  coming  in  great  heavy  throbs  which 
seemed  to  make  her  faint.  Her  father  stood  at 
one  side  of  the  great  French  bedstead  which  had 
been  drawn  forward  almost  in  front  of  the  open 
window  where  the  soft  spring  sunlight  was  coming 
in.  Near  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  the  doctor, 
watch  in  hand,  but  doing  nothing,  saying  nothing, 
impressing  one  by  the  very  attitude  in  which  he 
stood,  with  the  thought  that  all  doing  was  done, 
so  far  as  his  profession  was  concerned,  and  that 
he  was  now  waiting  —  for  what  ?  A  strange  woman 
was  at  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  looking  intently, 
as  were  all  the  others,  at  the  face  lying  quiet  on 
the  pillow,  and  bending  over,  very  near  to  her,  was 
Mrs.  Burnham.  All  these  things  Minta,  in  the 
doorway,  felt  rather  than  saw  ;  felt  also  the  deathly 
pallor  of  that  face  on  the  pillow  with  closed  eyes  ; 
so  still  she  lay  that  she  might  even  now  be  dead, 
for  all  indication  she  gave  of  life. 


2?8  "o,  mamma!    good-by  !  " 

There  was  one  other  in  the  room  ;  at  first  Minta 
did  not  see  him.  He  was  kneeling  close  to  the 
form  on  the  bed,  somewhat  shielded  from  view  by 
Mrs.  Burnham.  He  had  one  quiet  hand  clasped 
in  both  his  own,  but  his  face  was  buried  in  the 
same  pillow  on  which  the  moveless  head  rested, 
and  only  the  long-drawn,  shuddering  breath  which 
he  occasionally  drew,  gave  token  that  he  was  more 
conscious  of  what  was  passing  than  was  the  lovely 
body  over  which  they  were  keeping  their  solemn 
watch. 

No  one  spoke  to  Minta.  Judge  Burnham  gave 
one  swift  glance  toward  her,  then  turned  his  eyes 
instantly  back  to  that  quiet  face,  his  own  growing 
perhaps  a  shade  paler  than  it  had  been  before. 
At  that  moment  Mrs.  Burnham  noticed  her,  and 
moving  slightly  to  make  room,  signed  to  her  to 
approach.  It  was  just  then  that  the  head  on  the 
pillow  stirred  once  more;  the  lips  parted  in  a 
smile,  which  even  Minta,  all  ignorant  as  she 
was,  felt  was  not  of  earth.  Her  eyes  opened 
wide,  looked  upward  for  a  moment,  as  if  reaching 
beyond  the  confines  of  the  room  —  of  the  earth, 
indeed  —  then,  returning,  rested  for  a  moment  on 
her  step-mother's  face  ;  the  smile  grew  more  radiant 
still,  and  her  voice,  always  sweet,  was  filled  now 
with  an  unearthly  sweetness,  but  all  she  said  was, 
"  O,  mamma  !  good-by !  "  and  Seraph  was  gone. 

Even  in  that  supreme  moment,  Minta's  first  im- 
pulse was  to  turn  a  look  of  unutterable  astonish- 


"o,  mamma!    good-by!"  279 

ment  upon  her  step-mother.  What  miracle  was 
this,  that  the  last  ineffable  smile,  and  the  last 
tender  word  of  this  passing  soul,  should  be  given 
to  her  ?  Something  like  the  same  thought  came 
to  Ruth  herself,  and  brought  with  it  such  a  sense 
of  personal  loss  as  a  few  weeks  before  she  would 
not  have  supposed  it  possible  she  could  feel  in 
such  a  connection.  You  probably  know  all  about 
the  experiences  of  the  next  few  days  without  words 
from  me.  It  is  a  sorrowful  fact  that  the  scenes 
associated  with  the  house  of  mourning  are  too  com- 
mon personal  experiences  to  need  description. 

It  was  a  grand  and  solemn  funeral.  I  use  the 
two  words  thoughtfully  ;  the  grandeur  being  of  that 
subdued  kind  which  marks  the  home  not  only  of 
wealth,  but  of  culture.  Judge  Burnham  was  not 
the  man  to  spare  expense  on  any  occasion,  cer- 
tainly not  now  ;  so  the  beautiful  clay  from  which 
the  soul  had  departed  was  adorned  by  every  art 
known  to  skilled  management,  and  was  almost 
literally  embowered  in  flowers.  It  was,  of  course, 
a  time  of  painful  excitement  and  unrest  ;  the 
very  grief  of  one  of  the  mourners  having  so  much 
about  it  that  was  unnatural,  as  to  wear  heavily  on 
the  nerves  of  the  others.  The  poor  sister,  you 
will  remember,  was  utterly  unprepared  for  such 
scenes  as  these.  Ruth  had  made  several  efforts 
during  the  passing  days,  to  send  her  positive 
knowledge  of  Seraph's  state,  but  owing  to  her 
absence  from    home,  and    to  her   husband's  wish 


280  "o,  mamma!   good-by!" 

that  she  should  not  know  the  truth,  she  had  been 
successfully  kept  in  ignorance.  The  bitterness  of 
her  sorrow  and  remorse  were  now  pitiful  to  see. 
All  the  more  terrible  were  they  because  no  one 
seemed  able  to  offer  her  a  word  of  consolation. 
Ruth,  of  course,  dare  not  speak  at  all.  Judge 
Burnham  made  no  attempt  to  do  so,  acted,  indeed, 
as  though  he  did  not  know  this  other  daughter  of 
his  was  in  the  house,  yet  that  he  was  aware  of  it, 
was  apparent  when  he  roused  himself  once  to  this 
stern  statement :  "  Remember,  Ruth,  if  that  man 
dares  to  come  to  my  door  with  inquiries,  he  is  not 
to  step  inside  on  any  pretext  whatever.  I  lock  to 
you  to  see  that  my  commands  in  this  matter  are 
obeyed  to  the  letter,  and  remember  that  in  this 
thing  I  will  not  be  trifled  with." 

Then,  indeed,  she  ventured  one  protest  :  "But, 
Judge  Burnham,  she  is  his  wife — made  so  by  the 
laws  of  God  and  man.  Since  this  thing  is  done, 
and  she  is  to  live  with  him,  would  it  not  be  wise  at 
such  a  time  as  this  to  allow  him  to  come  and  speak 
to  her  if  he  will  !  " 

Then  she  was  glared  upon  with  a  fierceness  that 
startled  her.  "  You  do  not  know  what  you  are 
talking  about,"  he  said  at  last.  "  No  ;  it  would 
not  be  better  to  do  any  such  thing.  He  has-  no 
right  to  be  her  husband  ;  he  is  a  perjured  villain, 
and  he  knows  it  ;  he  has  deceived  her  as  well  as 
me,  but  she  chose  her  own  lot,  and  must  abide  by 
it ;  so  will  I  abide  by  my  determination,  and  I  re- 


"o,  mamma!    good-by  !  "  281 

peat  it  :  under  no  pretext  whatever  shall  that  man 
step  inside  my  door.  If  she  wants  him  yet,  she 
must  go  to  him.  I  have  no  power  to  control  her, 
but  I  have  power  to  hold  myself  aloof  from  him 
and  from  her,  since  she  has  chosen  between  us, 
and  I  shall  do  so.  And,  Ruth,  I  would  be  grateful 
to  you  if  you  would  not  mention  this  thing  to  me 
again." 

And  then  Ruth  knew,  more  fully  than  she 
had  before,  that  this  fierce  nature  was  entirely 
unsubdued. 

It  was  not  the  time  to  say  it,  nor,  indeed,  was 
there  any  use  in  ever  saying  it,  but  it  was  not  in 
her  nature  not  to  recall  once  more  the  fact  that  he 
had  allowed  this  man,  over  whose  very  name  his 
face  now  darkened,  to  lounge  in  his  parlors  even- 
ing after  evening  in  friendly  relations  with  the 
daughter  who  had  finally  yielded  to  his  influence, 
and  had  not  only  made  no  sign  of  disapproval,  but 
had  sneered  at  the  warnings  that  came  to  him. 
What  right  had  he  to  be  surprised  or  dismayed  at 
the  result  ? 

But  he  was  destined  to  hear  more  on  this  hate- 
ful subject.  His  daughter,  under  the  spell  of  a 
written  communication  from  her  husband,  made 
successful  effort  to  waylay  her  father  while  Seraph 
still  lay  in  unearthly  beauty  in  that  back  parlor,  and 
with  tears  and  sobs  and  pitiful  appeals  which  were 
sufficiently  honest  to  carry  much  weight  with  them, 
besought  him  to  forgive  her,  to  reinstate  her  once 


282  "  O,    MAMMA  !     GOOD-BY  !  " 

more  in  the  home  she  had  missed,  and  see  how 
dutiful  and  loving  and  comforting  she  could  be  to 
him.  Very  humble  she  was  and  penitent.  And 
he,  with  all  the  father  stirred  within  him,  with  the 
memory  of  the  fact  that  she  was  now  the  only 
daughter  left  him,  yet  resisted-the  touch  of  her  ca- 
ressing arms,  and  held  aloof  from  her,  and  walked 
the  floor,  his  face  still  stern,  but  his  chin  quivered, 
and  his  eyes  were  dimmed  with  a  film  of  tears. 
At  last  he  spoke  :  — 

"  I  have  not  meant  to  be  severe.  I  have  be- 
lieved myself  to  be  a  very  indulgent  father  ;  too 
indulgent,  I  have  had  reason  to  think,  during  these 
later  months  of  my  bitter  experience  ;  had  I  been 
less  so,  you  would  never  have  been  drawn  into  the 
toils  of  the  man  who  stole  you  from  me.  You 
chose  between  us,  however,  after  you  were  duly 
warned,  and  by  me,  and  I  had  meant  that  you  should 
abide  by  your  choice ;  but  there  are  other  argu- 
ments than  those  you  bring  to-night,  that  have 
been  influencing  me  of  late  ;  some  of  them  might 
surprise  you  if  I  gave  them.  I  will  not  go  into 
details  now ;  I  will  merely  say  that  I  have  re- 
solved to  do  what  I  thought  I  should  never  do 
—  offer  you  your  home  again.  It  is  a  desolated 
and  disgraced  home  ;  disgraced  by  your  own  act, 
and  the  Burnham  name  never  wore  a  stain  before ; 
but,  despite  it  all,  if  you  choose  to  come  back  to 
the  home  and  the  name,  and  pledge  yourself  never 
to   hold  another    conversation  with  the  man  who 


"o,  mamma!    good-by  !  "  233 

has  wronged  us  all,  I  will  receive  you  again  as 
my  daughter,  even  in  the  face  of  a  gaping  world. 
Also,  I  will  take  measures  that  will  forever  pre- 
vent your  being  annoyed  by  the  man  who  would 
like  to  claim  you  for  the  sake  of  the  money 
that  he  thinks  will  be  yours.  The  idea  of  the 
villain's  supposing  that  one  cent  of  my  money  will 
ever  pass  through  his  hands  ! "  Even  at  such  a 
time  Judge  Burnham  could  not  keep  the  subdued 
tones  of  voice  that  became  the  house,  but  let  them 
rise  into  anger  with  the  last  sentence. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  he  misunderstood  his 
daughter  as  entirely  as  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to 
misunderstand  a  woman.  She,  too,  lost  her  self- 
control,  and  gave  free  reign  to  her  passionate 
tongue.  She  had  not  been  for  weeks  in  the  con- 
stant society  of  a  bad  man  without  having  been 
influenced  thereby,  and  many  of  the  bitter  things 
that  she  poured  out  in  her  wrath  she  believed  to 
be  true.  She  told  her  father  that  he  was  under  the 
spell  of  a  woman  who  hated  her,  and  who  had 
hated  the  daughter  lying  dead  in  the  next  room, 
and  who  had  made  both  their  lives  bitter  for  them 
all  these  years.  That  it  was  she  who  had  so  preju- 
diced him  against  her  husband  that  he  would 
allow  himself  to  be  neither  reasonable  ner  even  re- 
spectable in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  And  then  she 
assured  him  that  she  knew  how  things  looked  to 
this  terrible  ogre,  the  world,  of  which  he  was  so 
afraid,  and  that  he  might  be  entirely  certain  the 


284  "  O,    MAMMA  !     GOOD-BY  !  " 

world  should  hear  just  how  a  father,  led  around  by 
a  second  wife,  could  be  made  not  only  to  so  em- 
bitter the  life  of  one  of  them,  that  she  welcomed 
the  grave  as  a  release,  but  could  actually  bring 
himself  to  all  but  forcing  the  other  to  give  up  her 
husband  and  her  married  name,  in  return  for  being 
received  again  into  a  home  which  she  hated  ;  and 
then  she  assured  him  that  she  had  chosen  and  was 
glad  to  remember  that  she  had,  and  that  nothing, 
ever,  not  even  the  honor  of  being  recognized  be- 
fore the  world  as  belonging  to  the  Burnham  race, 
should  make  her  desert  her  husband  even  for  a 
day  ;  that  she  would  go  back  to  him  that  very  night, 
and  that  she  wanted  nothing  from  this  house,  or 
from  the  people  to  whom  it  belonged,  from  this 
time  forth. 

He  listened  to  this  outburst  of  mingled  passion 
and  pain  at  first  in  a  kind  of  bewilderment,  then, 
as  she  made  some  accusations,  which,  in  the  light 
of  his  recent  experiences,  he  knew  were  absolutely 
false,  his  anger  rose  almost  to  white  heat ;  but  as 
her  passionate  torrent  of  words  went  on,  gathering 
force  as  they  were  poured  out,  he  reached  the 
point  where  his  well-trained  self-control  began  to 
assert  its  power,  and,  deceiving  her  by  the  very 
calm  with  which  he  listened,  he  waited  before  her 
in  absolute  silence,  until  she  paused  for  breath. 

"Are  you  quite  through  ?"  he  asked  at  last, 
when  she  had  been  silent  for  a  moment ;  "because 
if  you  are  not,  I  would  advise  you  to  continue  ;  it 


"o,  mamma!    good-by  !  "  285 

might  not  be  wise  to  go  from  here  with  any  pent- 
up  torrent  of  anger  such  as  you  have  exhibited  ; 
an  outburst  in  other  places  might  be  more  dan- 
gerous than  it  will  be  here.  I  am  glad  you  have 
told  me  all  this  ;  it  makes  plain  much  that  I  have, 
of  late,  suspected ;  it  reveals  some  things  to  me 
much  more  clearly  than  I  could  have  hoped  to 
understand  them  from  any  source ;  but  if  you 
have  really  nothing  further  to  say,  I  will  add  just 
a  few  plain  words,  very  easy  to  be  understood. 
You  may,  since  you  are  in  the  house,  if  you  choose, 
remain  during  the  funeral  services  of  my  daughter. 
As  soon  after  that  hour  as  you  can  conveniently 
do  so,  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  leave  my  house  ; 
and  I  wish  you  distinctly  to  understand  that  you 
are  not  to  return  to  it  at  any  time  nor  under  any 
pretext.  I  understood  you  to  say  that  you  had 
chosen  between  us  ;  very  well ;  you  had  the  oppor- 
tunity, and  can  blame  no  one  but  yourself  for 
having  made  use  of  it ;  what  I  require  is  that  you 
shall  abide  by  your  decision.  From  this  time 
forth  I  will  not  trouble  you  to  call  me  by  the 
name  which  has  sheltered  you  all  these  years,  and 
you  need  not  even  burden  your  conscience  by 
thinking  of  me  as  your  father;  you  have  my  full 
permission  to  disown  me  entirely,  and  to  say  to 
the  world  whatever  you  and  your  precious  husband 
please.  The  probability  is,  you  will  learn  in  time 
that  my  reputation  will  be  equal  to  the  shock  of 
even  the  withdrawal  of  his  favor.     Now,  as  it  is 


286  "  O,    MAMMA  !     GOOD-BY  !  " 

getting  late,  I  will  not  detain  you  further,  but  will 
bid  you  good-night,  Mrs.  Hamlin." 

He  opened  his  library  door,  and  ceremoniously 
bowed  his  daughter  out.  And  the  other  daughter 
lay  but  a  few  steps  from  them  —  her  face  still 
glorified  by  that  gleam  from  heaven,  which  had 
rested  on  it  —  embowered  in  flowers. 


NEXT    MOST."  287 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 


"next  most." 


AMONG  the  flowers  that  were  strewn  in  pro- 
fusion all  about  the  casket  where  Seraph 
rested,  was  a  single  spray  of  tuberoses,  lying 
somewhat  by  itself  and  as  close  as  possible  to  the 
face  of  the  beautiful  sleeper.  It  filled  the  room 
with  that  rare  fragrance  that  belongs  only  to  the 
tuberose.  Mr.  Satterley,  who  had  been  in  the 
room  alone  for  nearly  an  hour,  taking  that  long 
last  look  which  almost  rends  the  human  heart  in 
sunder — taking  it  with  the  consciousness  that  dust 
and  darkness  and  decay  are  now  to  claim  this 
treasure  for  its  own  — had  turned  away  at  last,  and 
then  turned  back,  and,  lifting  the  spray  of  roses, 
had  broken  a  single  perfect  bloom  from  its  stem, 
and  placed  it  within  the  velvet  folds  of  a  tiny  case 
that  held  Seraph's  pictured  face,  then  returned  it 
to  his  breast  pocket,  and  replaced  the  spray,  so 
that  it  almost  touched  the  fair  marble  cheek. 

Ruth,  who  had  been  about  to  enter  the  room, 
drawing  suddenly  back  when  she  saw  its  occupant, 
had  been  a  witness  to  this  last  act ;  a  pitiful  smile 


288  "  NEXT    MOST. 


t» 


hovered  about  her  mouth  for  a  moment.  The  spray 
of  tuberoses  had  a  history  which  Mr.  Satterley  did 
not  know.  Did  she  whose  unconscious  clay  lay  be- 
fore him  know  the  story  ?  In  the  world  to  which 
she  had  gone,  did  they  know  of  all  these  little  ten- 
der, pitiful  things  that  are  constantly  happening 
here  ? 

Barely  two  hours  before  had  Mrs.  Burnham 
herself  opened  the  piazza  door  in  answer  to  the 
timid  knock  of  a  trembling  hand,  and  had  come 
face  to  face  with  Estelle  Hollister. 

The  girl's  eyes  were  swollen  with  recent  weeping, 
and  there  were  heavy  dark  rings  under  them,  which 
told  of  long  night  vigils,  and  tears. 

"  May  I  look  at  her,"  she  had  asked  eagerly, 
"  and  may  I  lay  this  spray  of  flowers  beside  her  ? 
I  know  she  loved  tuberoses  ;  I  have  seen  her  wear 
them  often.  O,  Mrs.  Burnham !  I  am  so  sorry  for 
you  all  ;  and  so  sorry  for  —  for  him." 

And  Ruth,  for  the  moment  unable  to  speak, 
knowing  no  words,  indeed,  which  would  fit  the 
pitiful  strangeness  of  the  moment,  inclined  her 
head  in  silence  toward  the  closed  door,  with  its 
significant  badge  of  crepe,  and  left  the  two  alone 
together.  And  this  was  the  spray  of  flowers  from 
which  Mr.  Satterley  had  picked  one  bloom  to  wear 
close  to  his  heart. 

They  had  planned  very  carefully  for  the  funeral 
hour.  Mr.  Satterley  had  been  reminded  that  Minta 
would  be  dependent  on  him  for  care ;  but  nothing 


"  NEXT    MOST."  289 

took  place  as  it  was  planned.  Minta,  after  that 
last  stormy  scene  with  her  father,  refused  to  stay 
another  hour  in  the  house  ;  refused  to  be  present 
at  the  funeral  services  next  day,  but  went  in  haste 
and  in  anger  to  the  husband  for  whose  sake  she 
had  left  them  all  ;  and  Judge  Burnham  was  held 
all  the  dreadful  morning  in  the  grasp  of  relent- 
less pain.  A  peculiar  form  of  nervous  headache, 
of  which  he  was  sometimes  a  victim,  and  against 
which  he  had  struggled  all  the  previous  night,  in- 
creased upon  him  to  such  an  alarming  degree  that 
when  the  hour  for  the  public  service  arrived,  he 
was  under  the  influence  of  a  powerful  opiate,  and 
therefore  mercifully  unconscious  alike  of  bodily 
and  mental  pain.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  the  step- 
mother attended  by  Mr.  Satterley  were  the  only 
recognized  mourners  who  followed  Seraph  Burn- 
ham  out  from  her  father's  house. 

It  seemed  a  strange  house  to  Ruth  to  live  in 
after  that.  She  wandered  through  the  deserted, 
silent  rooms,  throwing  them  open  to  light  and  air, 
caring  for  the  many  dainty  and  delicate  things 
left  behind,  with  painstaking  fingers  that  almost 
quivered  with  a  sense  of  dread. 

How  was  it  that  she,  who  had  for  years  felt  no 
responsibility,  and  but  little  interest  in  this  part  of 
the  house,  had  come  to  be  the  sole  care-taker  here  ? 
How  swift  and  terrible  had  been  the  changes 
which  had  left  her  free  and  lonely  in  her  own 
house  !     No   danger  now  of   being   disturbed  day 


2QO 


NEXT    MOST. 


or  night  by  inopportune  outbursts  of  merriment, 
or  the  sound  of  gay  young  feet  ;  the  house  was 
still  —  very  still. 

Its  mistress  folded,  and  wrapped,  and  marked 
and  laid  away  package  after  package  of  pretty 
trifles  that  had  belonged  exclusively  to  Seraph  ; 
and  while  she  worked  there  fell  many  a  tear  born 
of  that  most  sorrowful  of  all  sorrowful  memories 
—  what  "might  have  been." 

She  had  been  so  very  late  in  finding  out  what 
she  and  Seraph  might  have  enjoyed  together ! 
She  had  so  utterly  failed  in  regard  to  Minta ;  and 
though  she  reminded  herself  that  the  two  were, 
and  had  always  been,  very  unlike,  yet  in  the  light 
of  her  recent  revelations,  she  could  not  but  feel 
that  possibly,  had  she  managed  all  things  differ- 
ently, all  results  might  have  been  different. 

Those  were  lonely  days,  the  ones  which  followed 
She  could  not  settle  to  anything ;  indeed  she  could 
not  find  anything  satisfactory  on  which  to  settle. 
Society  did  not  claim  her,  of  course ;  there  were 
endless  proprieties  connected  with  it  to  be  ob- 
served, but  it  released  her  from  personal  inflic- 
tions in  many  ways.  Still  she  did  not  find  it  by 
any  means  so  pleasant  to  be  alone  as  she  had  once 
supposed  it  would  be.  She  was  very  much  alone ; 
Judge  Burnham  absorbed  himself  in  business  even 
more  than  was  usual  ;  and  when  at  home  was 
gloomy  to  an  almost  alarming  extent ;  indeed,  if  I 
should  call  him  morose,  it  would  perhaps  be  the 


"  NEXT    MOST.  29I 

more  fitting  word.     That  he  was  a  rebel  against 
all  the  recent  family  trials,  was  only  too  apparent. 
Minta  he  did  not  mention    at    all.     Whether   he 
knew  anything  about  her,  or  her  circumstances, 
Ruth  could  not  determine  ;  for  it  did  not  seem  to 
her  wise  to  break  the  ominous  silence  in  which  he 
chose  to  wrap  himself.     His  mention  of  Seraph 
was  always  in  the  way  of  bitter  regret.     Had  she 
been  sent  from  home  at  once,  when  she  first  began 
to  cough,  all  might,  have  been  well.     Had  there 
been    somebody  besides  a  deceiving   idiot   for   a 
doctor,    they    might    have    known    in    time  what 
was  feared,  and  prevented  it.     Had  Seraph  been 
properly  guarded  from   exposure  she   need  never 
have  taken    such  an  alarming  cold.     He  did  not 
know,  of  course.     How  could  men  be  expected  to 
keep  guard  over  these  things  ?     It  was  the  woman's 
place.     Girls  were  careless,  of  course ;  they  always 
were ;  it  was  mothers  who  watched.     "If — "     And 
it  was  about  at  such  a  point  that  he  usually  had 
the  grace  to  stop.     Ruth  often  wondered  whether, 
had  he  continued,  he  would  have  said,    "  If  the 
girls  had  only  had  a  mother  !  "     But  she  was  very 
pitiful  toward  him  ;  she  had  some  realization  of  what 
it  must  be  for  a  father  to  lose,  thus  suddenly,  and 
thus  painfully,  the  hold  which  he  thought  he  had 
on  two  who  were  his  own.     As  often  as  she  looked 
at   Erskine,  she  shuddered  over  the  possibilities 
which  the  future  might  hold  in  shadow,  waiting 
for  her. 


292  "  NEXT    MOST. 

Then,  too,  she  realized  that  the  bright  side  to 
these  heavy  clouds  her  husband  did  not  see  at  all. 
It  seemed  an  infinite  pity  that  he  could  not,  at 
least  at  times,  absorb  himself  as  she  could,  in 
the  wonder  of  the  thought  that  Seraph  Burnham 
was  to-day  singing  among  the  angels.  She  had 
been  gone  only  a  few  weeks  ;  yet  how  much  she 
must  already  know  about  those  things  of  which 
her  father  was  totally  ignorant,  and  concerning 
which  Ruth  herself  could  only  vaguely  conjecture. 
Yet  the  conjecturings  grew  daily  more  interesting 
to  her.  And  in  the  leisure  which  had  come  upon 
her,  she  found  herself  reading  and  studying  much 
about  the  possibilities  of  that  other  world  which, 
because  of  the  experiences  in  Seraph's  room,  had 
come  near  to  her.  She  collated  in  logical  order 
all  the  words  which  the  Bible  has  to  offer  in 
regard  to  it,  and  was,  as  many  another  Christian 
has  been,  delighted  to  find  that  the  grand  old  Book 
told  so  much,  and  amazed  to  think  that  she  had 
not,  long  ago,  learned  all  it  had  to  tell  on  such 
an  absorbing  subject.  As  the  weeks  passed,  and 
she  still  remained  in  uncertainty  as  to  how  to 
use  her  leisure,  this  method  of  exhaustive  Bible 
study  grew  into  a  fixed  habit. 

Day  after  day  she  was  occupied  in  familiarizing 
herself  with  proof  texts  in  regard  to  this  or  that 
doctrine,  or  duty,  and  in  so  arranging  and  illumin- 
ing them  with  incident  or  story  that  Erskine  would 
be  interested  and  helped.     If  he  had  but  known  it, 


"  NEXT    MOST.  293 

these  were  growing  days  for  Erskine.  He  delighted 
in  being  with  his  mother  ;  in  her  having,  once 
more,  abundant  leisure  for  his  needs  ;  and  it  mat- 
tered very  little  to  him  how  she  planned  to  have 
the  leisure  occupied,  so  that  he  could  share  it  with 
her.  So  the  golden  head  and  the  mature  one  were 
often  and  often  bent  over  the  large  and  elegantly 
illustrated  family  Bible,  and  the  two  drank  in 
wisdom  together.  "  Erskine  will  never  be  puzzled 
as  to  the  right  or  wrong  of  many  questions  which 
have  disturbed  me,"  Ruth  said  to  herself  with 
infinite  satisfaction.  "  He  will  have  a  clearly  de- 
fined 'thus  saith  the  Lord,'  to  settle  them  for 
him." 

Meantime,  the  ladies  of  the  Temperance  Union 
were  watching  Mrs.  Burnham  with  no  little  anxiety. 
The  brilliant  career  which  they  had  marked  out 
for  her,  and  which  had  been  so  signally  com- 
menced, had  been  arrested,  you  will  remember, 
almost  immediately  thereafter. 

The  ladies  thought  that  her  public  work  had 
been  held  in  check  only  by  the  series  of  providen- 
tial circumstances  which  had  followed  each  other 
in  her  home. 

But  Ruth  knew,  even  as  you  and  I  do,  that  had 
not  these  startling  experiences  come  into  her  life, 
her  career,  so  far  at  least  as  regarded  the  public 
meetings,  would  doubtless  have  suddenly  closed. 

It  was  one  of  the  questions  which  perplexed  her 
now,    how    far    she   was    justified    ia    letting    her 


294  "  NEXT    MOST." 


husband's  prejudices  hold  her  back  from  work 
which  she  knew  she  would  enjoy,  and  in  which 
the  Lord  had  once  given  her  a  signal  token  of  his 
approval.  She  held  the  ladies  at  bay,  and  held 
her  own  decision  in  the  background,  while  she 
tried  to  study  with  unprejudiced  mind,  the  entire 
subject.  The  ladies  were  very  hard  to  answer ; 
they  were  importunate.  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Burnham, 
why  will  you  not  come  next  Sunday  and  help  us  ? 
You  cannot  think  how  we  have  missed  you ! 
There  are  so  very  few  of  us,  you  know,  to  bear 
burdens  of  this  sort.  There  are  plenty  who  are 
willing  to  give  money,  and  time  ;  to  carry  around 
petitions,  to  distribute  literature,  and  to  serve  on 
social  committees ;  but  when  it  comes  to  speaking 
a  few  words  to  the  poor  fellows  about  their  souls, 
or  even  to  leading  in  prayer,  the  only  answer  we 
can  be  sure  of  is,  '  I  pray  thee  have  me  excused !  ' 
I  don't  understand  why  it  is,"  would  Mrs.  Stuart 
Bacon  conclude  with  a  weary  sigh  ;  and  then,  after 
a  moment,  return  to  the  charge  :  "And,  dear  Mrs. 
Burnham,  since  that  first  Sabbath  when  you 
helped  us  so  grandly,  we  have  been  depending  on 
you.  Of  course  we  did  not  expect  you,  while 
family  cares  and  afflictions  were  resting  so  heavily 
on  you,  but  now  that  the  Lord  has  taken  those 
duties  out  of  your  hands"  — 

It  was  very  hard  for  Mrs.  Burnham,  in  the  face 
of  such  appeals,  to  make  answer  to  the  effect  that 
Erskine  needed  her,  or  that  Judge  Burnham,  who 


"  NEXT    MOST.  295 

was  nearly  always  at  home  on  Sabbath  afternoons, 
would  be  lonely  if  she  should  leave  him  for  an 
hour.  She  knew  such  words  must  sound  painfully 
trivial  to  women  at  work  among  souls  who  were 
in  immediate  and  desperate  need. 

The  very  fact  that  she  was  giving  reasons  which 
were  not,  after  all,  the  real  ones,  made  this  truth- 
ful woman  wince,  and  stammer,  and  feel  and 
appear  ill  at  ease ;  and  the  ladies  went  away 
pained  and  puzzled.  And  the  weeks  went  on,  and 
the  summer  waned,  and  another  autumn  was 
nearly  upon  them,  without  there  having  been  any 
definite  settlement  in  this  Christian  woman's  mind 
as  to  what  work  she  would  do  for  her  King. 

Not  that  she  was  idle  ;  it  had  been  to  her  a 
summer  of  study.  Certainly  she  was  furnishing 
her  brain  for  some  encounter  with  error ;  and 
because  of  her  connection  with,  and  interest  in, 
the  Woman's  Christian  Temperance  Union,  her 
studies  had  almost  without  plan  on  her  part,  devel- 
oped in  that  direction.  She  had  gone  into  the  hall 
on  that  Sabbath  afternoon  with  no  very  clear  idea 
as  to  what  she  thought  in  regard  to  the  political  or 
indeed  any  other  working  aspect  of  the  temper- 
ance question.  Had  she  been  asked,  that  day, 
what  she  thought  of  high  license,  or  of  no  license 
at  all,  or  whether  she  believed  prohibition  would 
prohibit,  or  whether  she  thought  constitutional 
prohibition  was  feasible,  she  could  only  have 
replied    in    vague   general    ways    that    she    never 


296  "  NEXT    MOST. 


»> 


wanted  her  boy  to  touch,  or  taste,  or  handle  alco- 
hol in  any  form,  and  that  if  we  were  really  to  love 
our  neighbors  as  ourselves,  she  was  in  duty  bound 
to  take  that  same  stand  for  other  boys.  Thus 
much  she  knew,  even  in  her  ignorance.  But  on 
that  September  afternoon,  as  she  sat  with  the 
evening  paper  in  her  hand,  and  her  fine  face  aglow 
with  a  feeling  very  like  contempt  for  the  astute 
member  of  Congress  who  had  written  a  remarkable 
article  on  the  folly  of  the  proposed  temperance 
movement,  she  said  aloud,  speaking,  Erskine 
thought,  to  him,  since  he  was  the  only  other  occu- 
pant of  the  room  :  "  What  utter  illogical,  nauseating 
nonsense  !     I'd  like  to  reply  to  that  man  !  " 

"  What  has  he  said,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Why,  some  false  and  silly  things  against  the 
temperance  movement,  and  against  the  temperance 
workers,  Erskine.  They  are  so  silly  that  they 
could  be  very  easily  answered,  by  one  who  was 
thoroughly  posted  as  to  facts  ;  and  yet  they  have 
such  a  semblance  of  truth  that  they  will  help  to 
lead  astray  many  who  have  not  studied  facts." 

She  was  not  trying  to  make  the  little  boy  under- 
stand ;  she  was  simply  thinking  aloud,  as  she  so 
often  did  during  these  months  of  comparative  soli- 
tude. But  the  boy,  being  so  constantly  with  his 
mother,  and  sharing,  in  a  degree,  all  her  studies 
and  all  her  interests,  had  come  to  understand  much 
better  than  even  his  mother  knew.  What  sug- 
gested to  his  wise  little  heart  the  next  remark?  — 


"  NEXT    MOST.  297 

"Mamma,  hew  do  you  know  but  God  wants  you 
to  stand  up  in  a  big  church,  or  somewhere,  and 
explain  all  about  it  to  people  who  have  not  studied 
facts  ?  " 

The  rich  blood  glowed  over  the  mother's  face  in 
an  instant.  Was  the  thought  somewhat  like  a 
revelation  to  her  heart  ?  Did  God  want  her  to  do 
anything  like  this  ?  But  what  would  Judge  Burn- 
ham  say  to  work  of  such  a  character,  even  in  its 
meekest  developments  ? 

"  Don't  you  think  He  may  want  you  to  do  it, 
mamma  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  ladies  ought  to  do  such  work, 
Erskine  ?  " 

She  did  not  know  why  she  said  it  ;  she  laughed 
at  herself  for  her  folly  even  while  she  spoke. 
What  should  the  baby  know  about  such  questions  ? 

"  Why  not,  mamma,  if  God  wanted  them  to  ? 
Wouldn't  a  true  lady  do  anything  for  God  ?  " 

Certainly  this  was  high  ground.  Could  she,  with 
all  her  added  years  and  wisdom,  hope  to  reach 
higher  ?  Nay,  was  she  really  prepared  to  reach 
so  high  ? 

She  went  back  instantly  to  the  old  painful  query, 
What  would  her  husband  say  ?  "  I'll  tell  you  what 
God  wants,"  she  said,  speaking  with  sudden  fervor  ; 
"He  wants,  and  I  want,  more  than  anything  else 
in  this  world,  to  have  papa  give  himself  to  Christ. 
If  we  could  only  have  that,  Erskine." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Erskine,  speaking  with  slow 


298  "  NEXT    MOST 


»> 


gravity,  apparently  surprised  at  her  sudden  fervor, 
"  I  know  that,  and  I  speak  to  God  about  it  all  the 
time,  and  He  knows  we  want  it  most ;  but  then,  He 
wants  us  to  think  about  the  next  most,  too,  doesn't 
He?" 

And  from  that  hour  Ruth  tried,  with  a  new 
energy,  to  come  to  a  decision  as  to  what  her  "next 
most "  ought  to  be. 


A   WAITING    WORKER.  299 


CHAPTER   XXV. 


A    WAITING    WORKER. 


YET,  in  the  days  that  immediately  followed,  had 
Mrs.  Burnham  been  questioned  in  regard 
to  her  hopes  for  her  husband's  change  of  views, 
she  would  have  admitted  that  they  were  never  at 
a  lower  ebb. 

Even  as  regarded  his  acquiescence  in,  or  endur- 
ance of,  almost  any  form  of  active  Christian  work 
for  herself,  she  was  almost  hopeless.  The  question 
that  seemed  pressing  for  decision  was,  How  far 
must  she  allow  deference  for  his  opinions  to  hold 
her  passive  ?  Meantime,  he  grew,  if  possible,  more 
gloomily  unreconciled  to  the  quiet  of  the  house  ; 
and  it  seemed  to  his  wife  that  they  could  not  even 
take  an  evening  walk  without  meeting  something 
that  added  to  the  bitterness  of  his  unrest. 

They  were  lingering  together  in  the  park,  just 
as  twilight  was  falling.  The  walk  had  been  of  her 
proposing,  and  was  one  of  her  many  devices  for 
drawing  him,  if  possible,  away  from  some  brooding 
care  or  anxiety  ;  she  could  not  be  sure  of  what 
nature  it  was,  and  while  she  suspected  that  it  might 


300  A    WAITING    WORKER. 

have  to  do  with  his  daughter  Minta,  she  did  not  dare 
to  question  ;  her  sole  hope  was  to  rest  him  from  the 
burden  for  awhile.  He  had  consented,  half-apa- 
thetically  to  the  walk,  only  stipulating,  somewhat 
sharply,  that  Erskine  should  not  be  of  the  com- 
pany ;  declaring  himself  to  be  in  no  mood  for  a 
child's  incessant  questionings. 

So  Erskine,  to  his  great  grief,  had  been  left  at 
home,  and  the  two  had  wandered  aimlessly  through 
the  park,  on  whose  beauty  the  touch  of  another 
autumn  was  already  beginning  to  settle.  Ruth 
had  left  her  husband's  side  and  gone  forward  a 
few  steps  to  examine  more  closely  some  gay  foli- 
age plants  about  a  fountain,  when  she  saw,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  driveway,  two  familiar  forms. 
It  took  but  a  glance  to  recognize  Mr.  Satterley, 
but  the  lady  she  had  to  study  carefully  before  she 
could  be  sure  that  it  was  Estelle  Hollister. 

Younger  she  looked,  and  prettier,  than  Mrs. 
Burnham  had  ever  seen  her  before  ;  and  as  she 
listened  to  what  her  companion  was  saying,  the 
soft  pink  flush  on  her  face  could  be  distinctly  seen. 
At  that  moment  the  two  turned  suddenly,  and  met 
her  eyes.  Both  faces  flushed,  and,  as  if  by  com- 
mon consent,  they  stood  quite  still  in  the  walk. 
Ruth  bowed  cordially,  and  then  Mr.  Satterley 
seemed  to  recover  himself,  and,  bowing  low  in  re- 
ply, moved  on.  It  was  but  a  moment  afterwards 
that,  rising  up  from  the  shrub  over  which  she  had 
bent,  Mrs.  Burnham  saw  that  the  girl  had  broken 


A    WAITING    WORKER.  3OI 

away  from  her  companion  and  was  coming  toward 
her. 

She  was  evidently  in  the  habit  of  being  as 
simply  direct  in  what  she  had  to  say  as  was  Ruth 
herself.  She  began  at  once,  without  waiting  to 
reply  to  the  cordial  "  Good-evening  !  "  that  accom- 
panied Ruth's  outstretched  hand.  "  Mrs.  Burnham, 
do  you  think  it  wrong  for  me  to  be  taking  a  walk 
with  him  ?  He  asked  me  to  come  out  here,  where 
it  was  quiet,  and  where  he  could  talk  with  me 
undisturbed.  He  has  not  forgotten  —  we  have 
neither  of  us  forgotten  ;  there  are  some  things, 
you  know,  that  people  cannot  forget.  But  he  says 
she  asked  him  to  talk  with  me,  and  tell  me  some 
things  that  she  wanted  me  to  understand  — and  I 
promised  her  to  —  to  forgive  him,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Burnham  could  hardly  forbear  a  smile.  It 
was  a  duty  which  the  poor  little  thing  was  so 
manifestly  willing  to  perform  ;  yet  she  was  so  con- 
scientiously desirous  of  doing  only  the  right  thing, 
and  of  paying  the  utmost  deference  and  respect 
to  the  memory  of  the  one  who  was  gone.  She 
hastened  to  speak  her  reassurance  :  "  My  clear 
girl,  why  should  it  be  wrong,  unless,  indeed,  you 
are  wronging  yourself?  Miss  Burnham  has  gone 
where  none  of  these  things  can  touch  her  any 
more.  I  should  think  there  could  be  no  impro- 
priety in  Mr.  Satterley's  carrying  out  her  wish  in 
regard  to  seeing  you  ;  but  if  you  would  really  like 
my  advice  for  yourself,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  go 


302  A    WAITING    WORKER. 

home  to  my  mother,  without  delay,  and  be  guided 
by  her  as  to  anything  in  the  future  ;  you  owe  it  to 
her,  and  to  yourself." 

"I  mean  to,"  said  Estelle,  with  half  a  smile,  and 
wholly  a  sob.     "  Good-by  !  and  thank  you." 

Meantime,  Mr.  Satterley  had  joined  Judge  Burn- 
ham,  and  the  two  had  been  speaking  together, 
apparently  of  matters  about  which  both  were  in- 
different. He  acknowledged  Mrs.  Burnham's  com- 
ing toward  them  only  by  another  low,  grave  bow, 
and  immediately  turned  away.  Judge  Burnham 
did  not  speak  a  word  for  the  next  five  minutes  ; 
then  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  have 
taken  on  an  added  tinge  of  bitterness,  "  It  seems 
to  me  Satterley  has  sought  and  found  consola- 
tion very  early,  for  one  who  was  so  nearly  broken- 
hearted as  he." 

"  They  are  friends  of  long  standing,"  Ruth  said, 
simply  and  gently  ;  there  was  no  need  now,  to  say 
more.  The  grave  had  closed  over  all  necessity  for 
revealing  that  chapter  which  would  be  only  an 
added  sting  to  the  father's  heart.  Ruth  smiled  to 
think  that  she  could  be  loyal  to  both  husband  and 
daughter  and  do  no  harm.  And  as  they  walked 
on  in  silence,  in  the  gathering  darkness,  it  almost 
seemed  to  her  that  she  could  hear  a<rain  that 
singularly  flute-like  voice,  and  once  more  it  said, 
"Mamma,  thank  you."  Their  next  encounter  was 
a  business  friend  of  Judge  Burnham's,  and  an  im- 
portant business   conference  must  needs  be  held 


A    WAITING    WORKER.  303 

then  and  there  ;  and  as  Ruth  stood  aside,  and 
waited,  there  came  to  her  presently  a  bit  of  life 
that  was  all  her  own.  A  plainly  dressed  young 
man  who  looked  as  though  he  might  be  a  mechanic, 
but  who  lifted  his  hat  to  her  with  the  air  of  a  gen- 
tleman, stopped  before  her  in  the  pathway. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Burnham,  for  speaking 
to  you  ;  you  do  not  know  me,  I  suppose,  but  I 
know  you  so  well,  and  have  so  much  for  which  to 
thank  you,  that  it  seemed  to  me  I  could  not  let 
this  opportunity  pass." 

The  twilight  had  fallen  very  fast  ;  the  face 
before  her  was  but  dimly  defined  ;  Ruth's  first 
impulse  was  to  draw  back,  and  step  quickly  to  her 
husband's  side,  but  he  was  close  at  hand.  What 
was  there  to  fear  ?  Why  not  learn  what  the  man 
meant  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken  in  the  person,"  she 
said,  with  gentle  dignity.  "  I  am  sure  you  have  no 
occasion  to  give  me  thanks." 

"  Indeed  I  have  ;  I  ask  God  daily  to  bless  you 
forever.  But  for  you,  I  shudder  to  think  what  the 
next  step  would  have  been." 

A  sudden,  sweet  memory  came  to  Ruth. 

"  You  are  that  young  man  to  whom  I  spoke  that 
Sunday  ?"  she  said,  hesitating,  throwing  both  hope 
and  doubt  into  her  voice. 

"  I  am  that  young  man  to  whom  you,  on  that 
never-to-be-forgotten  Sunday,  made  plain  as  day- 
light the  way  to  eternal  life.     I  thought  you  ought 


304  A    WAITING    WORKER. 

to  know  that  I  kept  my  promise  to  go  straight  to 
the  Lord  Jesus  and  claim  his  help.  And  I  got 
it,  bless  his  name  !  I  belong  to  Him  now  in  life 
and  death." 

Was  ever  sweeter  music  than  this  offered  to  a 
Christian's  ears  ?  There  were  only  a  few  more 
words  after  that.  Inquiries  as  to  the  young  man's 
plans  and  prospects.  He  was  doing  well  ;  he  had 
found,  already,  that  to  be  a  servant  of  the  Lord, 
meant  more  than  a  hope  of  Heaven  ;  it  meant  very 
much  for  this  life  also.  He  said  this  with  a  smile 
which  she  could  feel,  rather  than  see  ;  it  sounded 
in  his  voice.  Then  he  had  thanked  her  again  ; 
strong,  hearty  words,  and  had  told  her  that  he 
knew  she  must  be  going  on  with  her  work  ;  he 
felt  sure  God  had  called  her  to  the  saving  of 
young  men  who  were,  like  himself,  almost  lost. 
Only  a  few  minutes,  but  when  she  turned,  Judge 
Burnham  was  alone  ;  was  waiting  for  her  ;  and  it 
did  not  need  the  firm  grasp  with  which  he  drew 
her  hand  through  his  arm,  to  tell  her  that  he 
must  have  overheard  the  last  words,  and  was 
annoyed. 

"  You  seem  to  have  acquaintances  of  all  sorts," 
he  said  haughtily,  "  and  to  be  fated  to  meet  them 
to-night.     Let  us  get  out  of  this  park  as  soon  as- 
possible.     Pray  who  was  that  young  fellow  who 
presumes  to  speak  to  you  so  familiarly  ?  " 

"  He  was  not  familiar,  Judge  Burnham  ;  nothing 
could  have  been  more  deferential  than  his  tone. 


A    WAITING    WORKER.  305 

He  is  a  young  man  whom  I  met  at  the  Gospel 
meeting." 

"I  thought  you  did  not  attend  those  meetings." 

"  I  have  not  since  that  one  Sunday,  which  you 
must  remember." 

"  Oh  !  and  this  was  the  tobacco-smelling  fellow 
with  whom  you  were  kind  enough  to  talk.  If  he 
has  not  improved  in  his  habits,  it  is  well  we  were 
surrounded  by  so  much  fresh  air." 

"  He  has  improved.  He  is  a  servant  of  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  I  am  glad  over  it,  with  a 
gladness  which  I  wish  you  could  understand." 

"  Thank  you  for  all  kind  wishes  ;  and  I  presume 
it  is  hardly  necessary  to  remind  you  again,  that  I 
will  not,  on  any  account,  have  you  meet  familiarly 
with  those  people,  nor  allow  your  name  to  be 
associated  with  theirs." 

And  Mrs.  Burnham  went  home  from  her  walk 
more  hopeless,  in  regard  to  some  things,  than  she 
had  been  before  ;  but  more  sure  than  ever  that 
she  must  decide,  and  speedily,  as  to  her  "  next 
most." 

And  then,  suddenly,  unexpectedly,  Judge  Burn- 
ham  went  away  again.  Another  member  of  the 
firm  was  to  go,  but  sickness  detained  him,  and 
the  business  was  important,  and  complicated,  and 
tedious.  It  involved  much  travel,  and  long  delays, 
and  Ruth  was  left  more  utterly  alone  than  ever 
before  in  her  life.  There  were  no  young  ladies 
this  time  to  almost  bewilder  her  with  their  comings 


306  A    WAITING    WORKER. 

and  goings  ;  there  were  no  sounds  of  gay  society 
life  in  the  great  silent  house.  Even  Mr.  Satterley 
was  not  there  to  make  occasional  calls,  out  of 
respect  to  the  family  tie  which  had  once  existed. 

He  was  going  to  New  York  on  business  which 
mio-ht  detain  him  for  some  time,  so  he  told  her 
when  he  called  to  say  good-by  ;  and  Mrs.  Burnham, 
who  knew  that  Estelle  Hollister  had  gone  home, 
wondered  as  to  the  nature  of  the  business,  and 
was  somewhat  anxious,  and  silent.  It  made  her 
smile,  and  yet  almost  humiliated  her,  to  find  that 
even  Mr.  Satterley  was  missed.  There  was  a 
painful  sense  of  not  belonging  to  anybody,  which 
sat  heavily  upon  this  lonely  woman.  As  often  as 
she  wandered  through  the  lonely  halls  of  her  hand- 
some house  she  wondered  what  could  be  done 
with  it.  Since  society  had  shrouded  it  in  crepe 
and  passed  it  by,  to  what  use  could  those  large 
silent  rooms  be  put  which  would  reflect  honor  on 
the  One  to  whom  all  hers  was  consecrated  ?  Ah  ! 
therein  lay  the  secret  of  the  difficulty.  She  must 
say  "  our  rooms  ;  "  if  only  she  could  say  "  all  ours  is 
consecrated,"  how  plainly  would  the  answer  to  this 
painful  riddle  glow  before  her  !  She  knew  a  dozen 
beautiful  things  which  might  be  done  with  cultured 
consecrated  homes.  Did  she  not  know  all  about 
Flossy  Shipley  Roberts,  and  the  "  green  room," 
and  all  the  schemes  to  which  it  was  consecrated  ? 
This  was  certainly  her  "  most,"  and  though  she 
glung  to  her  one  weapon,  the  power  of   prayer. 


A    WAITING    WORKER.  2>°7 

and  though  she  daily,  even  as  Erskine  had  said, 
"  talked  with  God  about  this,"  kept  it  before  Him 
that  it  was  this  which  she  wanted  most,  yet  cer- 
tainly her  heart  was  very  heavy  and  her  faith  was 
weak. 

Her  husband  had  gone  before  there  had  been 
time  for  that  long  talk  with  him  which  she  had 
planned.  She  had  meant  to  say,  in  all  gentleness 
and  yet  in  plainness,  that  the  time  had  certainly 
come  when  she  could  no  longer  fold  her  hands  in 
graceful  idleness,  to  please  his  tastes ;  she  must 
find  her  appointed  niche  in  the  Lord's  great  work- 
shop, and  do  her  part.  She  had  meant  to  ask  — 
very  humbly  —  what  there  was  that  he  was  willing 
to  have  her  undertake.  She  would  like  to  go  to 
that  woman's  Gospel  meeting  ;  it  was  there  the 
Lord  had  met  her,  and  told  her  what  to  say  for 
Him  ;  and  she  felt  that  she  could  do  such  work  as 
this  again  ;  but  if  for  any  reason  he  shrank  from 
that  particular  form  of  work,  and  was  yet  willing 
that  she  should  undertake  some  other,  that  would 
be  honest  work,  she  would  not  press  her  wishes 
against  his  will  ;  only  this  must  be  understood  : 
she  was  bound  by  command  and  covenant  to  work, 
in  some  direction,  and  felt  that  she  could  wait  no 
longer.  Even  while  she  thought  it  out  —  what  she 
would  say,  and  what  he  might  possibly  reply,  and 
if  so,  what  she  could  answer  —  there  came  to  her 
that  same  sad  memory  over  which  she  winced,  as 
in  mortal  pain.      Her  husband  might  say  to  her,  if 


308  A    WAITING    WORKER. 

he  understood   these  things  well  enough   to   use 
their  language  :  "The  Lord  gave  you  work  to  do  ; 
he  placed  two  young  girls  in  your  special  care  — 
gave  you  all  the  appliances  with  which  to  work, 
and  bade  you  shape,  and  mould,  and  train  them  for 
Himself;  and  you  failed  Him!     To  one  of  them 
He  reached   out   loving  arms,  and    snatched    her 
from  the  perils  of  the  life  in  which  you  had  started 
her  feet,  and  took  her  to  Himself  ;  but  the  other  — 
where  is  the  other  ? "     There  was  no  danger  that 
Judge  Burnham  would  speak  any  of  these  terrible 
truths  to  his  wife  ;  but  there  was  also  no  need ; 
her  own  conscience  knew  how  to  press  them  home 
with  tremendous  power.     Still  she  was  in  earnest 
now,  and  she  must  not  longer  make  the  mistake  of 
sitting  idle,  glooming  over  the  past,  while  present 
opportunities  ran  to  waste.     But  there  had  been 
no  time  for  that  talk  with  her  husband.     He  had 
been  gone  for  several  weeks,  when   Mrs.    Stuart 
Bacon  sent  up  her  card,  one  morning,  with  a  pen- 
ciled request  that  she  might  be  seen  if  possible, 
as  her  business  was  urgent. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  see  her,"  said  Mrs.  Burnham, 
aloud,  and  incautiously,  rising  from  the  low  chair 
against  which  Erskine  had  leaned  while  he  made 
careful  attempts  over  the  figures  which  had  been 
set  him  to  add. 

"Why  not,  mamma?  "  said  this  wide-eyed  ques- 
tioner, who  was  not  held  to  rigid  rules  during 
school  hours,  his  mother  being  his  sole  teacher. 


A    WAITING    WORKER.  300, 

"Because,"  said  Ruth,  still  speaking  out  her 
troubled  thoughts,  rather  then  addressing  Erskine, 
"  she  will  want  me  to  do  what  I  cannot." 

"Don't  you  know  how,  mamma?" 

"  O,  yes  !  "  with  a  half-smile  on  her  face  over  the 
question  while  she  lingered  to  arrange  her  dress ; 
"  I  may  know  how  to  do  it,  but  there  are  other  diffi- 
culties in  the  way." 

"Don't  you  think  it  ought  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  do  ;  "  this  reply  was  given  with  energy. 
Erskine  paused,  pencil  in  hand,  curly  yellow  head 
dropped  a  little  on  one  side,  and  gravely  consid- 
ered this  problem  which  was  more  puzzling  to  him 
than  the  column  of  figures  ;  at  last  he  reached  a 
solution :  "  Then,  mamma,  I  should  think  if  it 
ought  to  be  done,  and  you  know  how,  that  God 
would  want  you  to  do  it." 

Whereupon  the  mother  laughed  again,  albeit  her 
eyelashes  were  moist,  and  kissed  her  young  logi- 
cian, and  went  down  to  Mrs.  Bacon. 

But  that  lady,  who  was  generally  clear-brained 
and  hurried,  delayed  the  special  reason  for  her  call 
in  a  most  trying  way.  She  talked  about  the  last 
Sabbath's  meeting  with  earnestness,  indeed,  but 
forgot  even  to  hint  of  the  pleasure  it  would  have 
been  to  have  had  Mrs.  Burnham's  help.  She 
told  a  long  story  about  a  young  girl  whom  she  had 
taken  into  her  family  under  circumstances  of  pecu- 
liar distress,  and  how  deep  was  her  interest  in  the 
matter,  and  how  much  there  was  in  just  such  lines 


310  A   WAITING    WORKER. 

that  needed  doing.  Under  other  circumstances, 
Ruth  would  have  been  deeply  interested  in  the 
story  ;  but  it  was  at  this  time  so  manifestly  being 
told  to  cover  an  embarrassment  over  something 
not  yet  reached,  that  to  the  listener  it  was  simply 
irritating. 

When  her  caller,  having  exhausted  the  story, 
went  back  to  the  weather,  waxing  eloquent  over 
the  beauty  of  the  morning,  Ruth  felt  almost  like 
saying  that  if  her  errand  was  really  no  more  im- 
portant than  it  appeared,  she  would  like  to  be 
excused. 

And  then  at  last  Mrs.  Bacon  broke  off  in  the 
midst  of  a  statement  that  the  air  reminded  her  of 
a  certain  September  morning  in  Italy,  to  say  : — 

"  But,  dear  Mrs.  Burnham,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  did  not  come  to  you  this  morning  to  talk  about 
the  weather.  I  want  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for 
what  I  earnestly  hope  is  unnecessary  interference 
on  my  part,  and  then  to  tell  you  plainly  what  I 
have  heard." 


UNDER    GUIDANCE.  3II 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 


UNDER    GUIDANCE. 


I  KNOW  it  is  possible  that  you  may  have  heard 
the  same  reports,  but  I  told  Mr.  Bacon  this 
morning  that  I  did  not  believe  you  knew  anything 
about  it  ;  and  I  was  just  going  to  try  to  do  as  I 
would  be  done  by."  A  nervous  little  laugh  fin- 
ished the  sentence,  and  then  Mrs.  Bacon  launched 
a  question  that  covered  the  ground  over  which  she 
had  just  gone.  "  Do  you  know  anything  of  Mrs. 
Hamlin's  circumstances,  my  dear  Mrs.  Burnham  ? " 

"  I  have  not  heard  from  her,  or  of  her,  since  she 
left  her  father's  house,  on  the  evening  before  her 
sister  was  buried,"  Ruth  said,  with  steady  voice, 
but  rising  color.  The  unnatural  relations  that  now 
existed  in  the  disorganized  family  were  sources  of 
continual  embarrassment  to  her. 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,"  affirmed  Mrs.  Bacon,  with 
an  air  of  relief.  "  I  was  sure  that  your  kind  heart 
would  lead  you  to  act  in  the  matter,  now  that  in 
your  husband's  absence  the  responsibility  falls  on 
you.  Well,  my  dear,  I  will  not  make  a  longer 
story  than  is  necessary.  It  is  said  that  her  hus- 
band has  gone  from  bad  to  worse.     He  has  been 


312  UNDER    GUIDANCE. 

getting  into  very  dangerous  relations  again  with 
certain  men  ;  gambling,  you  know,  and  —  well,  I 
am  afraid,  forging  notes.  Mr.  Bacon  thinks  it 
will  hardly  be  possible  to  save  him  from  state 
prison  this  time.  We  have  also  heard  that  he  has 
kept  his  wife  in  a  very  straightened  condition. 
They  have  changed  boarding  places  several  times, 
even  in  these  few  months,  and  always,  I  am  told, 
of  necessity,  because  they  were  in  arrears  with 
board.  And  only  last  night  I  heard,  from  what,  I 
am  afraid,  is  a  reliable  source,  that  he  had  deserted 
her,  and  that  she  was  really  in  very  destitute 
circumstances." 

"  Do  you  know  where  she  is  to  be  found  ?  " 

It  was  the  only  question  that  Ruth's  lips  seemed 
able  to  frame. 

"  Yes,  I  do  ;  I  took  special  care  to  learn.  She 
is  on  Court  Street,  away  down  toward  the  river,  in 
one  of  those  long  houses,  on  the  third  floor  back. 
I  don't  wonder  you  start,  Mrs.  Burnham  ;  it  is 
terrible  to  think  of  Judge  Burnham's  daughter  in 
a  tenement  house  on  Court  Street,  isn't  it  ?  How- 
ever, you  will  be  able  to  right  all  that.  If  the 
man  must  really  go  to  prison,  why,  the  poor  thing 
will  be  rid  of  him,  at  least." 

She  had  risen  as  she  spoke,  and  was  drawing 
her  wrap  about  her  with  the  air  of  one  who  had 
done  her  part  in  the  best  way  she  knew.  And 
Ruth,  quivering  in  every  nerve,  with  a  sense  of 
shame,    for   her    husband's    sake,    yet   had    sense 


UNDER    GUIDANCE.  313 

enough  to  feel  that  this  good  woman  had  done  the 
best  that  the  circumstances  would  admit  ;  had 
really  said  the  only  comforting  thing  that  could  be 
said,  even  though  what  comfort  there  was  must 
grow  out  of  the  fact  of  there  being  prisons  for 
convicted  criminals.  Verily,  Minta  Burnham  had 
chosen  for  herself ! 

What  to  do  was  the  imperative  question  staring 
Ruth  in  the  face,  demanding  immediate  reply. 
She  was  by  no  means  so  clear  of  her  course,  or  of 
her  ability  to  accomplish,  as  Mrs.  Bacon  seemed  to 
be  for  her.  Of  course  something  must  be  done. 
A  daughter  of  Judge  Burnham's  could  not  be  left 
in  a  Court  Street  tenement  house  alone  ! 

Yet  would  she,  at  Ruth's  request,  and  under  her 
care,  go  elsewhere  ?  And  if  so,  where  was  the 
suitable  place  for  her,  and  what  was  the  next  step 
to  take  ? 

It  was  all  bewilderment;  and  while  she  strug- 
gled with  it,  she  could  not  tell  whether  to  be  glad 
or  sorry  that  Judge  Burnham  was  absent.  If  he 
were  at  home,  he  would  know  just  what  to  do  ;  but 
were  not  the  chances  that  he  would  do  the  wrong 
thing  ?     Yet  what  was  the  right  thing  ? 

Troubled  exceedingly  by  these  and  kindred 
questionings,  she  yet  made  herself  ready  with  all 
speed,  for  a  journey  to  town.  Erskine  came,  ques- 
tioning :  Why  were  they  not  to  have  a  geography 
lesson  ?  Why  was  she  going  to  town  ?  Could  he  go 
along  ?     He  would  like  to  go  to  the  city  very  much. 


314  UNDER    GUIDANCE. 

No,  his  mother  said,  he  could  not  go  with  her 
this  time,  because  she  had  something  to  do  in 
which  he  would  be  in  the  way.  What  was  that  ? 
he  wanted  to  know.  And  smiling  faintly  over  the 
apparent  incongruity  of  her  statements,  she  con- 
fessed that  she  did  not  know  what  she  was  going 
to  do. 

"  Why,  mamma ! "  he  said,  in  great  amaze. 
"  Then  how  can  you  do  it  ?  " 

She  couldn't,  she  explained,  not  until  she 
learned.  She  was  to  try  to  find  out  what  was  the 
wise  and  right  thing  to  do  in  a  matter  of  great 
perplexity. 

Over  this  statement  Erskine  considered  for  a 
moment,  then  came  his  wise,  sweet  question,  that 
went  to  the  root  of  things :  "  Why  don't  you  ask 
God  to  tell  you  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  she  said,  turning  toward  him  with  a 
smile  that  yet  was  very  close  to  tears.  It  was 
a  surprising  thing,  when  one  stopped  to  look  at  it. 
She,  a  Christian  woman,  hurrying  to  an  emergency 
that  she  consciously  did  not  know  how  to  meet,  yet 
taking  no  time  to  consult,  not  only  the  acknowl- 
edged Source  of  all  wisdom,  but  One  who  had 
graciously  said,  "  Ask  of  Me."  She  held  out  her 
hand  to  Erskine,  and  the  two  knelt  in  their  accus- 
tomed place  of  prayer,  while  Erskine  voiced  the 
request  that  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  would  show 
mamma  just  what  He  wanted  her  to  do. 

"  Do  you  know  now  ?"  he  asked  her  cheerily,  a 


UNDER    GUIDANCE.  3  I  5 

moment  after.  Evidently  there  had  not  entered 
the  child's  mind  a  question  as  to  her  doing,  without 
fail,  whatever  the  Lord  Jesus  wanted  done.  "  Has 
He  told  you  yet,  mamma?" 

"Not  yet,"  she  said,  smiling  over  his  lesson  on 
faith. 

"  O,  well !  He  will,  I'm  sure  He  will,  and  He'll 
do  it  in  time." 

And  in  the  lijrht  of  this  earnest  assurance  she 
went  to  her  task. 

The  lower  part  of  Court  Street  was  not  used  to 
carriages  such  as  the  one  which  Mrs.  Burnham 
summoned  to  her  aid  ;  there  was  much  staring 
from  behind  half-closed  blinds,  and  the  noisy  fol- 
lowing of  certain  ragged  little  boys  and  girls  who 
felt  no  need  of  blinds  to  hide  behind.  The  stairs 
were  somewhat  narrow  and  somewhat  steep  ;  and 
a  very  slatternly  girl,  from  whose  contact  Ruth 
carefully  held  her  dress,  toiled  upward  just  ahead 
of  her  to  show  the  way.  Dinginess  increased  upon 
them  as  they  mounted,  and  the  third  story  back 
was  destitute  of  anything  like  comfort.  A  well- 
known  voice  answered  Ruth's  hesitating  tap,  and 
still  uncertain  what  to  do,  or  how  to  make  known 
her  errand  —  if  she  had  one  —  she  entered,  and 
stood  face  to  face  with  Minta  Hamlin. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  you."  This  was  her  greeting,  in- 
tense astonishment  bristling  in  every  letter,  and 
then  the  two  women  stood  and  looked  at  each 
other.     Certainly  the  situation  was  striking.     Sev- 


3  l6  UNDER    GUIDANCE. 

eral  times  in  their  lives  had  these  two  confronted 
each  other  under  sufficiently  startling  circum- 
stances, but  neither  perhaps  had  ever  felt  it  more 
than  at  this  moment.  The  beautiful  girl  of  Mrs. 
Burnham's  memory  had  changed  even  in  these 
short  months.  Her  face  was  almost  deathly  pale, 
even  in  this  moment  of  excitement  ;  and  her  hair 
was  pushed  straight  back  from  her  forehead,  in 
unbecoming  plainness.  She  wore  a  dark  silk  dress 
which  had  once  been  pretty,  but  which  was  now 
drabbled  and  torn ;  the  lace  of  one  sleeve  hung  in 
careless  frays,  the  skirt  was  daubed  with  some- 
thing which  looked  like  paint,  and  one  elbow 
was  worn  to  a  decided  hole.  The  furniture  of 
the  bare  and  cheerless  room  matched  the  dress  of 
its  mistress  ;  shabby  remnants  of  by-gone  finery, 
is  a  sentence  which  sufficiently  describes  it.  And 
in  this  room  Minta  Hamlin,  who  in  her  father's 
house  was  accustomed  to  all  the  elegancies,  and 
to  all  the  trained  attention  that  money  will  fur- 
nish, was  evidently  preparing,  with  very  insufficient 
appliances,  to  do  some  washing  for  herself.  A 
small  hand  bath  tub  filled  with  suds,  occupied 
a  perilous  position  on  a  slippery  chair  that  was 
once  upholstered  in  hair-cloth,  and  a  pile  of 
soiled  clothing  lay  on  the  floor.  That  the  girl 
looked  miserably  ill  would  have  been  apparent  to 
the  most  casual  observer  ;  and  the  hollow  cough 
which  she  frequently  gave  reminded  Mrs.  Burn- 
ham  each  time  she  heard  it,  of  Seraph. 


UNDER    GUIDANCE.  3T7 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  after  that  prolonged 
silence,  accompanied  by  a  haughty  stare,  "  to  what 
am  I  indebted  for  this  most  unexpected  honor  ? 
You  did  not  send  up  your  card,  so  I  was  not 
prepared  ;  I  thought  it  was  my  landlord." 

Even  then  there  was  a  mocking  smile  on  her 
face,  as  of  one  who  could  almost  enjoy  the  embar- 
rassment, because  of  the  fact  that  it  must  be  a 
very  embarrassing  moment  to  the  other  person. 
Just  then  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  quite  unlike 
Ruth's  timid  one ;  sharp,  and  imperative.  The 
opening  of  the  door,  almost  immediately  after- 
ward, threw  Ruth  just  back  of  it,  and  the  intruder 
did  not  see  her.  He  was  a  young  man,  with  an 
impudent  face,  and  a  voluble  tongue. 

"  I  have  called  once  more  for  the  money,"  he 
began,  "  and  we  may  as  well  understand  one 
another  this  time ;  I  don't  propose  to  climb  these 
stairs  again  for  nothing.  Either  you  give  me  the 
month's  rent  now,  or  else  you  walk  out  of  this  flat 
without  any  more  delay.  People  cannot  expect  to 
rent  furnished  flats  with  nothing  but  promises  ; 
and  I  have  instructions  to  "  — 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  All  the  Erskine 
blood,  which  in  its  way  was  certainly  as  intense 
as  any  that  belonged  to  the  house  of  Burnham, 
seemed  to  boil  in  Ruth's  veins  as  she  heard  her 
husband's  daughter  thus  familiarly  and  insolently 
addressed.  It  increased  her  indignation  to  dis- 
cover  that    the    girl-woman    who    confronted    the 


3  l8  UNDER    GUIDANCE. 

man  was  pallid  with  terror,  and  evidently  felt 
herself  to  be  in  his  power.  "  He'll  do  it  in  time, 
mamma!  "  Erskine's  last  assuring  words,  mingling 
with  his  good-by  kisses,  seemed  to  sound  in  her 
ears.  Did  God  tell  her  what  to  do  in  this  crisis 
of  her  life  ?  She  thought  of  it  wonderingly  after- 
wards—  the  painful  doubt  of  the  moment  before, 
the  instant  decision  flashing  upon  her  from  some- 
where. 

"  You  forget  yourself  strangely,  sir,"  she  said, 
stepping  with  the  air  of  a  princess  from  behind 
the  half-open  door.  "  If  you  have  any  claim  on 
this  lady  you  may  present  your  bill  at  Judge  Burn- 
ham's  office,  263  Fourth  Street,  to-morrow  morning 
at  ten  o'clock,  and  it  will  be  paid." 

The  alarmed  young  man  made  confused  efforts 
to  apologize,  to  explain  ;  but  he  might  as  well 
have  attempted  to  address  an  iceberg. 

There  could  be  no  explanation,  the  lady  said, 
which  could  justify  the  use  of  such  language  to 
a  woman  ;  all  she  wished  of  him  was  to  retire. 
Which  he  did  in  haste  and  dismay. 

And  then  Ruth  speedily  forgot  him  in  the  un- 
expected work  she  found  for  thought  and  hands. 
The  poor  haughty  girl  who  had  tried  to  be  so  self- 
sufficient,  and  so  daring  in  her  insolence,  had  sud- 
denly felt  her  strength  giving  way ;  the  room  spun 
dizzily  around  her,  then  grew  dark  and  wavered  in 
that  sickening  fashion  which  is  the  last  conscious 
feeling  that  the  victim  to  a  fainting  fit  remembers, 


UNDER    GUIDANCE.  3I9 

and  but  for  Ruth's  sudden  spring  to  her  side,  she 
would  have  fallen.  It  was  very  unpoetical,  what 
followed.  Ruth  could  not  get  her  charge  to  a 
chair ;  the  utmost  that  her  strength  could  accom- 
plish was  to  lay  her  gently  on  the  dingy  carpet, 
then  look  about  for  water.  The  soapsuds  in  the 
bath  tub  was  the  only  liquid  at  hand ;  there  was 
no  help  for  it  but  to  dip  her  hastily  ungloved 
hand  into  the  foam  and  bathe  the  pallid  face 
with  it. 

It  was  well,  perhaps,  for  all  concerned,  that 
there  was  no  disinterested  looker-on  to  view 
the  ludicrous  side  of  this  scene  ;  it  was  really  the 
first  conscious  thought  of  the  proud  girl  as  she 
came  slowly  back  to  life.  She  darted  a  suspicious 
glance  at  her  step-mother,  and  attempted  to  push 
her  ministering  hand  away,  and  rise  to  a  sitting 
posture.  But  Ruth,  as  she  splashed  the  soapy 
water  right  and  left,  was  too  manifestly  absorbed 
in  ministering,  to  the  best  of  her  powers,  to  have 
room  for  any  other  thought. 

"  You  are  better  now  ? "  she  said  inquiringly. 
"  Oh  !  I  would  not  try  to  move  just  yet  ;  let  me 
put  my  arm  under  your  head,  so,  and  lie  still  just 
a  few  minutes  longer." 

The  tone  was  gentle,  soothing  ;  as  she  might 
have  spoken  to  a  frightened  child.  And  Minta, 
who  had  never  in  her  life,  save  in  these  five  miser- 
able weeks  just  past,  known  what  it  was  to  think 
of  and  plan  for  her  own  necessities ;  and  who  was 


320  UNDER    GUIDANCE. 

amazed,  and  frightened,  and  miserable  in  every 
possible  way,  struggled  for  just  another  minute  to 
regain  her  haughty  voice  and  speak  her  repelling 
words,  then  suddenly  covered  her  white  face  with 
both  hands,  and  burst  into  a  perfect  storm  of 
tears. 

"  Poor  child  ! "  said  her  step-mother,  wholly 
sympathetic  and  pitiful;  "poor  frightened  child! 
I  do  not  wonder  you  were  overcome.  The  wretch, 
to  dare  to  speak  to  you  as  he  did  !  Never  mind  ; 
he  has  gone  away,  and  will  be  quite  sure  not  to 
return."  Then,  from  that  mysterious  inner  Source 
of  Strength,  there  came  to  her,  not  by  thinking  it 
out,  but,  someway,  entirely  as  a  matter  of  course, 
what  to  do.  She  spoke  as  though  the  matter  had 
been  planned  for  weeks.  "  I  have  a  carriage  at 
the  door  ;  as  soon  as  you  are  able  to  move,  it  will 
do  you  good  to  get  into  the  open  air.  This  room 
is  stifling.  We  will  drive  directly  home.  I  will 
just  lock  this  door,  and  send  Mrs.  Barnes  to  attend 
to  everything.  Come,  Minta,  I  would  try  not  to 
cry  so  much ;  it  will  take  your  strength,  and  you 
need  it  to  get  ready." 

She  had  not  meant  to  go  home,  this  angry  girl 
who  had  not  yet  sufficiently  reached  her  right 
mind  not  to  suppose  herself  ill-treated  in  some 
way.  She  had  not  expected  to  have  the  chance  to 
go,  during  these  later  weeks  ;  but  she  assured 
herself  bitterly  that  if  she  were  to  have  the  chance, 
she  would  spurn  it  with  scorn.     She  had  been  sur- 


UNDER    GUIDANCE.  7,2 1 


prised  to  see  her  step-mother,  but,  true  to  her 
plans,  had  tried  to  summon  the  scorn.  But  she 
was  utterly  alone  ;  her  husband  for  whom  she  had 
risked  everything,  had  cruelly  deserted  her,  under 
circumstances  of  peculiar  misery.  She  was  en- 
tirely without  money  or  friends ;  she  was  in  a 
strange  part  of  the  city,  the  very  noises  of  which 
kept  her  in  a  state  of  fear  day  and  night.  She 
was  faint  for  lack  of  proper  food  ;  she  had  despised 
her  supper  the  night  before,  and  loathed  her  break- 
fast that  morning  ;  she  had  not  known  what  she 
could  say  to  the  landlord's  agent  when  he  called 
again,  and  she  had  gotten  ready  that  tub  of  soap- 
suds, and  made  her  pitiful  preparations  to  wash, 
under  the  dim  impression  that  when  he  should 
turn  her  into  the  street,  it  would  be  better  for  her 
to  have  clean  clothes  to  carry  ;  but  as  she  lay  there 
limp  and  helpless  on  the  floor,  with  the  absurd 
incongruity  of  one's  thoughts  in  moments  of  high 
excitement,  she  remembered  the  little  heap  of 
soiled  clothes,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could 
never,  never  get  them  washed.  And  then  there 
came  another  knock  at  the  door,  and  she  had  so 
far  recovered  as  to  make  a  desperate  effort  to 
struggle  into  the  small  cane-seat  rocker,  the  only 
touch  of  comfort  which  the  room  held.  It  was 
Ruth  who  answered  the  knock,  and  held  open  the 
door  in  dignified  silence  while  the  woman  who  had 
the  general  charge  of  all  these  "  flats  "  stood  and 
looked  at  her  in  open-mouthed  astonishment,  and 


322  UNDER    GUIDANCE. 

finally  said,  "  Oh  !  I  didn't  know."  What  she  did 
not  know  was  not  explained  ;  it  might  have  taken  a 
very  long  time. 

Mrs.  Burnham  was  a  woman  who,  however  she 
might  question  and  delay,  on  ordinary  occasions, 
in  an  emergency  knew  just  what  to  say.  The 
present  seemed  to  her  an  emergency. 

"  Do  you  want  anything  ?  "  she  asked  with  gentle 
dignity ;  and  the  woman  murmured  that  she 
thought  she  heard  a  noise  and  didn't  know  but 
—  and  then  she  stopped. 

"  You  did  not  know  but  you  might  help  us," 
finished  Ruth  pleasantly.  "Thank  you  ;  you  can. 
Mrs.  Hamlin  is  not  well ;  she  has  been  quite  faint, 
but  is  better  now,  and  I  want  to  take  her  away 
immediately.  If  you  will  see  that  the  halls  and 
stairs  are  clear  of  idle  children,  so  we  can  reach 
the  door,  and  my  carriage,  without  annoyance,  I 
will  take  care  that  you  are  paid  for  your  kindness. 
I  will  lock  Mrs.  Hamlin's  room  and  take  the  key 
with  me.  I  shall  send  my  housekeeper  to  attend 
to  her  property  here,  as  soon  as  possible,  and  after 
that  you  may  let  the  proper  persons  know,  if  you 
please,  that  the  room  is  vacant." 

The  miserable  young  wife  could  not  have  told, 
afterwards,  how  it  was  that  she,  who  had  meant  to 
be  so  independent  of  her  home,  should  have  been 
thus  easily  managed.  But  she  felt  so  weak  and 
faint,  and  the  thought  of  getting  out  of  that  dreary 
room  into  the  fresh  air  was  so  inspiriting,  and  her 


UNDER    GUIDANCE.  323 

step-mother  was  so  prompt  and  matter-of-course 
in  all  her  movements,  that  really  the  fact  was,  the 
girl  was  lying  back  among  the  cushions,  being 
whirled  toward  her  old  home,  before  she  had 
rallied  enough  to  think  what  she  must  do  next. 

As  for  Mrs.  Burnham,  the  uppermost  thought 
in  her  mind  was  one  of  surprise  that  there  could 
have  been  any  doubt  as  to  what  to  do. 


324  AT    HOME. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 


AT    HOME. 


WITH  Mrs.  Hamlin,  the  feeling  of  irrespon- 
sibility, of  yielding  to  the  inevitable,  con- 
tinued after  she  reached  home.  She  was  very 
miserable,  but  the  quiet  beauty  of  her  old  room, 
with  its  familiar  belongings,  rested  her  nerves, 
thouo;h  she  did  not  know  it. 

She  was  a  deserted  wife,  disgraced,  penniless, 
broken-hearted,  yet  the  bed  was  so  soft,  and  its 
coverings  were  so  pure,  and  the  pillows  were  so 
fair  ! 

She  let  hot  tears  soil  their  purity,  but  still  she 
buried  her  face  in  their  depths  with  a  feeling  that 
all  these  belongings  fitted  her,  as  those  with  which 
she  had  had  to  do  of  late  did  not.  And  being  very 
tired,  as  well  as  very  miserable,  she  quite  soon 
forgot  her  sorrows  in  sleep. 

But  with  Mrs.  Burnham  the  case  was  different. 
She  was  alone  in  the  library,  and  the  reaction 
from  all  the  day's  excitement  was  upon  her. 
There  was  time  for  her  to  think  over  what  she 
had  done,  and  to  imagine  some  of  the  results  which 


AT    HOME.  325 

might  follow.  It  was  not  that  she  doubted  the 
wisdom  of  her  movements  thus  far  ;  she  was  still 
upheld  by  the  calm  assurance  that  what  she  had 
done  was  the  thing  to  do  ;  but  she  could  not,  even 
with  this  assurance,  keep  her  over-tired  brain  from 
surmising  results.  What  would  her  husband  say  ? 
What  would  he  do  ?  Nothing  apparently  was 
more  firmly  impressed  upon  his  mind  than  the 
fact  that  he  had  disowned  his  daughter,  and  here 
she  was  domiciled  in  her  old  room  !  Would  Judge 
Burn  ham  tolerate  this  innovation  ?  From  his 
wife's  knowledge  of  him,  gleaned  by  many  experi- 
ences during  the  years,  she  did  not  believe  he 
would.  And  yet  it  had  seemed  to  her  the  one 
thing  to  do. 

There  was  nothing  for  her  but  straightforward 
action  in  the  line  which  was  plain  to  her.  Judge 
Burnham's  duties  she  could  not  shoulder  for  him. 
But  certainly  the  next  thing  for  her  was  to  write 
him  a  plain  statement  of  affairs  as  they  now  stood. 
It  was  not  an  easy  letter  to  write  ;  she  avoided  the 
central  feature  of  it  longer  than  was  her  fashion. 
She  told  the  absent  father  much  about  Erskine, 
and  his  sweet,  bright  ways,  and  much  even  about 
the  common  details  of  home  life,  before  she 
brought  herself  to  the  sentence :  "  And  now,  I 
have  something  to  tell  that  will  alarm  and  pain 
you.  I  heard  to-day  some  very  startling  news. 
What  will  you  think  when  I  tell  you  that  " — she 
held  her  pen,  at  this  point,  and  considered.      She 


326  AT    HOME. 

had  often  spoken  to  Judge  Burnham  about  "  the 
girls,"  she  had  often,  of  late  years,  said  "your 
daughters,"  but  now  there  was  only  one,  and 
the  circumstances  were  such  that  to  say  "  your 
daughter "  seemed  almost  to  insult  him.  How 
should  she  manage  the  sentence  ?  Her  face,  as 
she  held  her  pen,  waiting,  and  looked  away  into 
space,  with  thoughtful  yet  resolute  eyes,  would 
have  been  a  study  for  a  painter. 

Did  not  this  woman  realize  that  she  had  deliber- 
ately and  of  her  own  will,  introduced  once  more 
into  her  home  that  which  had  been  its  chief  dis- 
cordant element  in  the  past  ?  No  ;  after  careful 
deliberation  I  think  I  may  say  to  you  that  she 
realized  at  last  that  such  was  not  the  case.  Either 
you  have  been  a  thoughtless  reader,  or  I  have 
failed  of  my  purpose,  if  you  have  not  discovered 
that  Ruth  Burnham  has  reached  higher  ground 
than  that  on  which  her  feet  ever  trod  before. 

It  is  not  easy  to  explain  just  how  much  that 
sentence  means.  It  was  not  that  she  had  reached 
serene  heights,  where  daily  pettinesses  could  not 
disturb  her  more.  It  was  not  that  she  was  not 
keenly  alive  to  the  discomforts  —  to  call  them  by 
no  stronger  name  —  that  would  probably  come  to 
her  through  this  latest  movement  of  hers,  but  it 
does  mean  that  she  was  keenly  alive  to  her  mis- 
takes in  the  past,  and  believed  them  to  have  been 
the  chief  sources  of  her  unhappiness.  One  of 
them   she   knew   had   been  a   persistent    effort  to 


AT    HOME.  327 

carry  her  own  burdens  even  after  she  had  been 
to  the  Cross,  and  professed  to  leave  them  there. 
And  another  of  them  had  been  a  persistent  deter- 
mination to  do  her  own  planning,  even  after  she 
had  ached  the  Lord  to  plan  for  her. 

These  two  mistakes  she  had  resolved  to  make 
no  more.  And  it  was  the  thought  that  the  One 
to  whom  Erskine  had  appealed  for  help  had  assur- 
edly told  her  what  to  do,  that  held  her  eyes  and 
her  heart  quiet,  even  though,  so  far  as  her  fore- 
knowledge went,  there  were  seas  of  trouble  yet 
to  cross. 

Suddenly  she  bent  over  her  paper,  and  the  pen 
moved  on.  "  What  will  you  think  when  I  tell  you 
that  our  daughter  Minta  is  at  this  moment  in  her 
old  room,  sleeping  quietly  ?  I  went  for  her  this 
morning  and  brought  her  home.  I  found  her  in 
a  very  third-rate  house  on  Court  Street.  Think  of 
it  !  She  is  not  well ;  has  a  cough  that  reminds  me 
painfully  of  Seraph.  It  seems  that  her  miserable 
husband  deserted  her  some  weeks  ago  :  left  her 
quite  without  money  in  this  wretched  '  flat '  that  he 
had  rented  on  Court  Street.  Her  meals  were 
brought  up  to  her,  prepared  by  a  woman  who 
rented  the  kitchen,  and  made  her  living  by  serving 
the  occupants  of  the  rooms  with  badly-cooked 
food.  When  I  found  her,  she  was  on  the  eve  of 
being  turned  out  of  even  this  refuge,  by  the  land- 
lord's agent,  because  she  owed  for  two  weeks' 
rent  !     None  of  them  seemed  to  be  aware  of  her 


328  AT    HOME. 

relationship  to  us.  Of  course  I  knew  that  she 
must  come  home  at  once.  She  was  very  willing 
to  do  so,  for  she  felt  sick  and  frightened.  A  line 
from  Mr.  Bacon,  received  since  I  reached  home, 
.informs  me  that  there  is  very  little  doubt  but  that 
Hamlin,  on  whose  track  detectives  have  been  ever 
since  he  fled  the  city,  has  been  arrested,  and  is 
now  in  confinement,  awaiting  trial.  It  is  forgery 
again.  Mr.  Bacon  thinks  there  will  be  no  possi- 
bility of  his  escaping  justice  this  time.  I  have 
not  told  poor  Minta  this,  and  do  not  know  how  to 
tell  her.  I  think  I  will  wait  for  advice  from  you. 
Meantime,  your  heart  would  ache  for  her,  if  you 
could  see  her.  She  is  very  pale,  and  has  grown 
alarmingly  thin.  I  think  the  poor  girl  has  suf- 
fered more  than  perhaps  we  shall  ever  know.  It 
frightens  me  to  think  of  her  having  been  alone 
in  that  part  of  the  city,  and  she  so  young,  and 
still  so  beautiful."  And  then  had  followed  a  few 
sentences  expressive  of  her  loneliness  in  his  ab- 
sence, and  her  hope  that  these  days  of  separation 
were  nearly  over.  And  then  this  weary  woman 
closed  her  writing  desk  with  a  little  sigh,  because 
her  heart  could  not  escape  wondering  what  he 
would  say  to  it  all. 

There  was  also  perplexity  as  to  the  very  next 
day.  She  could  not  determine  what  would  be 
Minta's  line  of  action.  Whether  she  would  remain 
the  pale,  passive  woman  she  was  now,  or  whether 
she  would  rebel,  and  insist   on   escaping  ever  so 


AT    HOME.  329 

kind  a  control  of  her  movements.  Or,  whether, 
indeed,  she  would  assume  that  she  had  rights  in 
that  home  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  those  of  the 
woman  who  had  brought  her  here. 

Ruth  could  not  but  admit  that  this  last  state 
would  be  more  like  the  Minta  Burnham  of  her 
acquaintance  than  either  of  the  others  ;  and,  in 
view  of  her  father's  present  position,  would  work 
disastrously  for  the  girl. 

Having  wearied  herself  after  this  fashion,  im- 
agining scenes  that  might  take  place,  she  suddenly- 
remembered,  with  a  smile  of  relief,  that  the  part 
that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  arrange,  she  had 
a  right  to  leave. 

I  think  it  was,  perhaps,  as  well  for  both  these 
women  that  the  next  morning  found  the  younger 
one  quite  ill. 

The  programme  for  that  day,  at  least,  was  plain. 
Dr.  Westwood  must  be  sent  for,  and  the  role  of 
decided  invalidism  must  be  carried  out.  It  proved 
that  the  same  line  of  action  would  do  for  several 
days.  Minta  was  not  alarmingly  ill,  but  the  doctor 
counseled  quiet,  and  utmost  care  ;  and  Ruth,  in 
arranging  for  tea  and  toast  and  lemonade,  and 
various  cooling  drinks,  and  seeing  to  it  that  her 
patient  was  made  comfortable  in  many  ways,  had 
little  time  for  troubled  imaginings.  As  for  Minta, 
the  necessity  for  asking  to  have  the  glass  or  the 
handkerchief  handed  to  her,  or  the  pillow  moved; 
and  for  saying  "Thank  you  "  frequently,  overcame 


330  AT    HOME. 

much  of  the  painful  embarrassment  with  which 
the  new  day  began ;  and  for  the  most  part  she 
was  quiet  and  submissive.  As  the  days  passed, 
and  she  grew  better,  and  was,  presently,  able  to 
sit  in  the  large  easy  chair,  and  watch  the  passers- 
by,  on  the  street  below,  it  became  evident  that 
she  was  very  much  subdued.  One  circumstance 
contributed  largely  to  this  result.  Mrs.  Burnham, 
in  looking  over  a  trunk  of  packed  away  treasures, 
in  search  of  something  for  which  Minta  had  asked, 
came  suddenly  upon  a  little  box  of  Seraph's,  that 
had  not  been  opened.  It  closed  with  a  spring 
that  Ruth  did  not  understand ;  but  as  she  held  it 
in  her  hand,  it  appeared  that  her  fingers  must  have 
touched  the  hidden  spring,  for  it  flew  open,  and 
on  the  top  lay  a  letter  addressed  to  Minta,  in  her 
sister's  familiar  writing.  Ruth,  much  moved, 
ceased  her  search,  and  carried  the  letter  at  once 
and  in  silence  to  the  pale-faced  girl  lying  back 
among  the  cushions  of  the  easy  chair.  She  did 
not  know,  either  then  nor  afterwards,  what  words 
Seraph  had  spoken  for  her  last  ones  ;  but  Minta's 
eyes  were  red  with  weeping  when  she  saw  her 
again,  and  her  voice  seemed  gentler,  and  her  man- 
ner more  subdued,  after  that  time.  It  became 
apparent  that  she  also  had  anxious  thoughts  about 
the  future.  She  asked  often  for  word  from  her 
father.  When  was  he  coming  ?  Did  he  know 
that  she  was  there  ?  What  had  he  said  ?  And 
once,    she   asked    did    Ruth    think    "  papa    would 


AT    HOME.  331 

allow  her  to  remain  at  home,  after  all  that  had 
been?"  And  Mrs.  Burnham,  whose  heart  was 
daily  growing  more  full  of  pity  for  this  deserted 
wife,  who  —  even  though  she  had  sinned,  was  also 
certainly  much  sinned  against,  and  who,  though 
her  love  was  so  misplaced,  and  so  entirely  selfish 
in  its  exhibition — had  yet,  in  a  sense,  loved  the 
man  who  had  deserted  her,  felt  that  she  would 
give  much  to  be  able  to  answer  a  hearty  Yes  to 
this  hesitating  question,  and  did  not  know  how  to 
reply.  Her  husband  maintained  an  ominous  silence 
in  regard  to  the  news  she  had  sent  him.  His  let- 
ters came  as  regularly  as  usual,  but  they  were 
shorter,  and  she  fancied  colder.  He  was  crowded 
with  care,  and  some  anxiety.  He  hoped  to  get  the 
complications  straightened  out  before  very  long  ; 
she  did  not  need  the  assurance  that  he  would  be 
at  home  as  soon  as  possible ;  and  then  had  fol- 
lowed messages  for  Erskine,  very  tender  and 
fatherly,  but  not  a  word  for,  or  about,  Minta  in 
any  way.  He  seemed  to  have  simply  ignored  her 
story.  This  boded  no  good  for  the  future.  There 
was  nothing  now  but  to  wait,  with  what  patience 
they  could.  Each  day  it  became  evident  to  Mrs. 
Burnham  that  she  was  settling  into  the  position 
held  so  long  ago  :  looked  upon  by  Minta  as  the 
intercessor  between  her  and  an  indignant  father; 
and  each  day  she  grew  more  doubtful  about  her 
ability  to  perform  her  part.  Judge  Burnham  was 
cruelly  proud  ;    he  had  been  cruelly  stabbed,  and 


332  AT    HOME. 

very  publicly  too  ;  he  had  publicly  disowned  his 
daughter.  Would  his  pride  ever  let  him  ac- 
knowledge her  again  ?  More  and  more  the  wife 
felt  that  this  household  needed  other  than  human 
power  to  settle  it  into  anything  like  peace.  Her 
cry  for  help  from  the  Omnipotent  became  daily 
more  earnest.  There  was  notably  in  her  expe- 
rience a  certain  Sabbath  evening  when  her  prayer 
rose  into  the  realm  which  perhaps  might  be  rever- 
ently called  "  wrestling." 

And  then,  one  morning,  when  all  the  air  was 
crisp  with  frost,  and  the  earth  was  aglow  in  its 
latest  autumn  finery,  came  a  telegram  from  Judge 
Burnham  to  his  wife.  Could  she  join  him  in 
Westford  by  the  noon  train,  to  return  that  even- 
ing ?  Now  Westford  was  a  little  city,  but  an 
hour's  ride  from  their  own  greater  one.  Ruth 
had  often  been  there,  and  there  was  nothing  about 
the  telegram  in  itself,  to  cause  her  anxiety.  She 
was  frequently  summoned  to  that,  or  neighboring 
towns,  to  meet  her  husband  on  business — to 
sign  an  important  paper,  to  tell  her  version  of  a 
bit  of  news  that  had  been  supposed  trivial,  but 
which  had  suddenly,  in  the  light  of  events,  grown 
important. 

It  ought  to  have  been  simply  a  satisfaction  that 
Judge  Burnham  was  at  last  so  near  home  as  this. 
But  about  everything  which  could  happen,  during 
these  days,  there  was  an  undertone  of  anxiety.  It 
was  an  almost  humiliating  fact,  but  Ruth  felt  that 


AT    HOME.  333 

she  was  somewhat  in  disgrace  with  her  own  hus- 
band, and  dreaded  while  she  looked  forward  to 
meeting  him.  Of  course  she  must  obey  the  sum- 
mons ;  but  she  looked  wistfully  at  Erskine,  and  was 
half-ashamed  to  think  how  much  she  would  like  to 
be  able  to  make  herself  think  it  sensible  to  take  the 
child  with  her.  He,  too,  was  wistful.  He  never 
approved  of  his  mother's  absences  from  himself. 
He  asked  her  the  same  question  in  many  forms  : 
"  Was  she  sure  and  certain  and  positive  that  she 
would  return  that  very  truly  night  ?  "  and  "  Would 
she  bring  papa  home  with  her  ?  "  Over  this  last 
Ruth  considered.  The  telegram  was  ambiguous, 
after  the  manner  of  those  two-sided  messengers. 
Did  it  mean  that  she  could  return  that  night  or 
that  they  both  would  ?  She  did  not  know  ;  the 
utmost  she  could  say  to  Erskine  was,  that  she 
would  come,  unless  something  which  they  could 
not  foresee,  or  help,  prevented ;  and  that  she 
would  certainly  "  bring  papa  home  "  if  she  could. 
And  then  she  went  away  with  all  speed. 

Judge  Burnham  was  on  the  platform  before  the 
train  fairly  halted  ;  his  greeting  was  warm,  but 
he  seemed  preoccupied  and  in  great  haste.  He 
hurried  her  into  a  carriage. 

"  I  have  to  go  at  once  to  an  important  gather- 
ing," he  explained.  "  Will  you  mind  coming  in 
with  me  ?  I  shall  not  be  detained  over  a  half- 
hour  ? " 

"  Is  it  a  court  house  ?  "    she  asked,  as  the  car- 


334  AT  home. 

riage  drew  up  before  a  large  building.  "  Will 
there  be  ladies  present,  Judge  Burnham." 

"No,"  he  said,  "it  was  not  a  court  room,  but 
a  public  hall.  O  yes  !  there  would  be  plenty  of 
ladies  ;  but  he  should  have  to  leave  her,  and  go  to 
the  platform." 

There  was  nothing  unusual  about  this  ;  he  had 
often  to  go  to  the  platform  when  there  were  gather- 
ings for  the  discussion  of  public  interests. 

He  seated  her,  in  the  closely  filled  hall,  and 
hurried  forward  ;  he  was  evidently  being  waited 
for.  He  had  only  time  to  lay  aside  his  hat, 
and  exchange  a  few  words  with  a  gentleman  who 
stepped  toward  him,  book  in  hand,  and  then  Ruth 
watched  her  husband  as  he  took  the  book,  and 
came  forward  to  the  centre  of  the  platform  and 
began  to  read. 

And  this  was  what  he  read,  — 

"There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood, 

Drawn  from  Immanuel's  veins; 
And  sinners  plunged  beneath  that  flood, 

Lose  all  their  guilty  stains. 
I  do  believe,  I  now  believe  that  Jesus  died  for  me. 
That  on  the  cross  He  shed  His  blood 

From  sin  to  set  me  free." 

Can  I  tell  you  anything  about  it,  do  you  suppose  — ' 
the  tumult  of  amazement  and  of  joy  surging  in  his 
wife's  soul  ? 

She  felt  her  face  grow  pale,  and  then  red,  under 
the  power  of  her  emotions.     She  held  herself,  by 


AT    HOME.  335 

main  force  of  will,  quiet  on  the  seat,  when  it 
seemed  to  her  she  must  spring  up  before  them 
all  and  shout  for  joy.  Those  words  read  by  the 
voice  which  was  to  her  the  finest  in  the  world  — 
read  with  such  a  peculiarly  marked  emphasis  on 
the  personal  pronouns  as  to  tell  her,  even  if  his 
reading  them  at  all  under  such  circumstances  had 
not  done  it,  that  he  had  made  of  this  a  personal 
matter. 

"  I  do  believe,  I  now  believe  that  Jesus  died  for  me !  " 

She  said  the  lines  over  in  exultant  undertone, 
emphasizing  the  words  as  he  had  done,  while  the 
great  company  burst  into  song.  This  was  surely 
the  noon  prayer  meeting,  about  which  she  had 
heard  much,  and  which  she  had  never  before 
attended. 

Almost  with  the  last  note  of  song  mingled 
Judge  Burnham's  voice  again,  and  he  said,  "  Let 
us  pray."  His  wife  bowed  her  head  on  the  seat 
before  her,  and  her  whole  frame  shook  with  emo- 
tion. She  did  not  know  afterwards  whether  she 
prayed,  or  cried,  or  laughed. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  long  afterwards,  telling 
Erskine  about  it,  "I  know  I  said  Hallelujah!  if 
that  is  praying." 

An  elderly  lady  seated  beside  her  regarded  the 
slight  figure  draped  in  mourning  with  an  air  of 
tender  sympathy  ;  and  when,  a  few  moments  after- 


336  AT    HOME. 

wards,  there  came  from  the  leader  of  the  meeting 
an  invitation  for  those  who  would  like  to  learn 
the  way  to  Christ,  to  rise,  that  they  might  be 
especially  remembered  in  prayer,  the  old  lady 
touched  her  arm  and  whispered  :  — 

"  Won't  you  stand  up,  dear  ?  It  will  help  you 
ever  so  much." 

Then  Ruth  turned  toward  her  a  radiant  face,  in 
which  smiles  were  mingling  with  falling  tears,  and 
shook  her  head  as  she  whispered  back  :  — 

"  I  know  the  way.  Isn't  it  glorious  ?"  But  she 
could  never  give  a  very  lucid  account  of  that  noon 
prayer  meeting. 

There  were  other  gentlemen  who  entered  the 
same  carriage  with  them,  and  there  was  opportu- 
nity for  only  an  exchange  of  smiles  between  her 
husband  and  herself,  until  they  reached  a  hotel, 
and  he  had  ordered  and  secured  a  private  room. 
Then  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her, 
his  face  indicating  too  deep  feeling  just  then  for 
words. 

"  It  is  a  long  story,  my  dear,"  he  said,  when  they 
were  calmer,  "  or  rather,  it  has  been  a  long,  long 
battle  on  my  part,  and  could  be  summed  up  in  a 
few  sentences.  It  began,  oh  !  long  ago,  but  it  has 
been  marked  by  a  few  very  decisive  incidents. 
That  Sunday  afternoon  meeting — I  never  forgot 
it,  Ruth,  nor  your  way  of  putting  the  facts  ;  you 
were  logical,  and  your  conclusion  was  inevitable, 
and  I  was  angry  that  it  should  be  so.     I  silenced 


AT    HOME.  337 

you,  but  not  my  own  conscience  ;  I  never  got 
away  from  it.  Then  came  our  troubles,  and  your 
attitude  through  them  all.  You  were  different, 
some  way,  from  what  you  ever  were  before.  It 
angered,  while  it  awed  me.  I  knew  you  were 
controlled  by  a  power  that  I  did  not  understand. 
About  that  time,  too,  Seraph  told  me  many  things 
that  I  did  not  know  before  ;  I  began  to  realize 
something  of  what  you  had  borne  through  the 
years.  And  then,  Ruth,  you  know  that  I  saw 
Seraph  die. 

"  But  the  final  appeal,"  he  continued  after  a 
moment's  silence,  "the  final  appeal  came  in  that 
letter  which  I  did  not  answer.  The  thought  that 
you  could  voluntarily  open  your  home  again,  after 
what  you  had  borne,  and  I,  her  father,  had  dis- 
owned her  !  I  cannot  tell  you  all  that  it  said  to 
me.  Neither  will  I  try  to  tell  you  now  about  the 
conflict.  It  is  a  little  too  recent  to  speak  of  it 
calmly.  Yet  I  will  tell  you  this,  Ruth  ;  I  reached 
a  point  last  Sunday  night  when  I  felt  sure  that 
the  decision  must  be  made  then  and  there,  for 
eternity. 

"  I  have  struggled  with  this  question  for  years, 
and  affected  skepticism  whenever  that  was  the 
most  convenient  way  of  stifling  conscience,  and 
affected  indifference  when  my  heart  was  fairly 
on  fire  ;  and  hidden  behind  inconsistencies  of 
others,  and  all  that  sort  of  flimsincss  ;  but  last 
Sunday    evening    it   was   as   if   the    Lord    himself 


338  AT    HOME. 

stood  by  me  and  said,  '  Just  this  one  more  time, 
my  friend,  I  offer  myself  as  your  advocate.'  It 
all  came  over  me  in  an  instant,  Ruth,  how  often 
He  had  done  it  before,  and  how  certain  I  would  be 
to  offer  my  services  but  once  to  any  man  living, 
and  I  —  well,  my  dear,  I  surrendered.  Some  time 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  But  now,  let  us  have 
some  dinner,  and  then  get  home.  I  was  coming 
this  afternoon  ;  I  expected  to  reach  you  by  the 
three  o'clock  train,  but  I  had  to  stop  here  on  busi- 
ness, and  I  met  my  old  college  friend,  Maiden ;  he 
is  here  conducting  these  noon  meetings  ;  and  when 
he  heard  how  it  was  with  me,  he  insisted  that  I 
should  stay  and  lead  this  meeting  and  tell  the 
business  men  where  I  stood.  I  had  determined 
not  to  write  to  you  ;  I  wanted  to  tell  my  story ; 
but  when  he  pressed  this  matter,  it  occurred  to 
me  that  it  would  be  only  a  fair  return  for  the  sur- 
prise you  gave  me  that  Sunday,  you  know,  to 
telegraph  you  to  meet  me  here,  and  take  you 
to  prayer  meeting  with  me  ;  I'm  glad  I  did.  Your 
face  was  an  inspiration.  I  shall  never  forget  how 
it  looked  while  I  was  reading  that  hymn.  What  a 
glorious  hymn  it  is  !  " 

"  Did  you  bring  papa  home  ? "  It  was  Erskine's 
clear  ringing  voice  which  sounded  down  to  them 
from  the  upper  hall  the  moment  he  heard  the  grat- 
ing of  the  latch  key  in  the  street  door.  "  Did  you 
bring  papa  home  ?  "  And  the  next  instant  he  was 
flying  down  the  stairs. 


AT    HOME.  339 

And  while  the  poor  young  frightened  wife  was 
nervously  walking  up  and  down  the  hall  above, 
and  wondering  and  fearing  how  she  should  meet 
her  father,  Judge  Burnham  gathered  his  boy  into 
his  arms,  and  said  between  the  kisses,  in  a  voice 
which  quivered  with  feeling,  — 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  at  last  she  has  brought  your  papa 
home  !  " 


Tilting  at  "Windmills  !  A  Story  of  the  Blue 
Grass  Country.  By  Emma  M.  Connelly.  Boston: 
D.  Lothrop  Company.     12mo,  Sl-50. 

Not  since  the  clays  of  •'  A  Fool's  Errand  "  has  so 
strong  and  so  characteristic  a  "  border  novel "  been 
brought  to  the  attention  of  the  public  as  is  now 
presented  by  Miss  Connelly  in  this  book  which  she 
so  aptly  terms  "Tilting  at  Windmills."  Indeed,  it 
is  questionable  whether  Judge  Tourgee's  famous 
book  touched  so  deftly  and  yet  so  practically  the 
real  phases  of  the  reconstruction  period  and  the 
interminable  antagonisms  of  race  and  section. 

The  self-sufficient  Boston  man,  a  capital  fellow 
at  heart,  but  tinged  with  the  traditions  and  envi- 
ronments of  his  Puritan  ancestry  and  conditions, 
coming  into  his  strange  heritage  in  Kentucky  at 
the  close  of  the  civil  war,  seeks  to  change  by  in- 
stant manipulation  all  the  equally  strong  and  deep- 
rooted  traditions  and  environments  of  Blue  Grass 
society. 

His  ruthless  conscience  will  allow  of  no  com- 
promise, and  the  people  whom  he  seeks  to  prose- 
lyte alike  misunderstand  his  motives  and  spurn  his 
proffered  assistance. 

Presumed  errors  are  materialized  and  partial 
evils  are  magnified.  Allerton  tilts  at  windmills 
and  with  the  customary  Quixotic  results.  He  is, 
seemingly,  unhorsed  in  every  encounter. 

Miss  Connelly's  work  in  this,  her  first  novel,  will 
make  readers  anxious  to  hear  from  her  again  and 
it  will  certainly  create,  both  in  her  own  and  other 
States,  a  strong  desire  to  see  her  next  forthcoming 
work  announced  by  the  same  publishers  in  one  of 
their  new  series — her  "  Story  of  the  State  of  Ken- 
tucky." 


Monteagle.  By  ransy.  Boston:  T).  Lothrop 
Company.  Price  75  cents.  Both  girls  and  boys 
will  And  this  story  of  Pansy's  pleasant  and  profit- 
able reading.  Dilly  West  is  a  character  whom  the 
first  will  find  it  an  excellent  thing  to  intimate,  and 
boys  will  find  in  Hart  Hammond  a  noble,  manly, 
fellow  who  walks  for  a  time  dangerously  near 
temptation,  but  escapes  through  providential  in- 
fluences, not  the  least  of  which  is  the  steady 
devotion  to  duty  of  the  young  girl,  who  becomes 
an  unconscious  power  of  good. 

A  Dozen  of  Them.  By  Pansy.  Boston:  D. 
Lothrop  Company.  Price  60  cents.  A  Sunday- 
school  story,  written  in  Pansy's  best  vein,  and 
having  for  its  hero  a  twelve-year-old  boy  who  has 
been  thrown  upon  the  world  by  the  death  of  his 
parents,  and  who  has  no  one  left  to  look  after 
him  but  a  sister  a  little  older,  whose  time  is  fully 
occupied  in  the  milliner's  shop  where  she  is  em- 
ployed. Joe,  for  that  is  the  boy's  name,  finds  a 
place  to  work  at  a  farmhouse  where  there  is  a  small 
private  school.  His  sister  makes  him  promise  to 
learn  by  heart  a  verse  of  Scripture  every  month. 
It  is  a  task  at  first,  but  he  is  a  boy  of  his  word, 
and  he  fulfills  his  promise,  with  what  results  the 
reader  of  the  story  will  find  out.  It  is  an  excellent 
book  for  the  Sunday-school. 

At  Home  and  Abroad.  Stories  from  The  Pansy 
Boston:  D.  Lothrop  Company.  Price,  $1.00.  A 
score  of  short  stories  which  originally  appeared 
in  the  delightful  magazine,  The  Pansy,  have  been 
here  brought  together  in  collected  form  with  the 
illustrations  which  originally  accompanied  them. 
They  are  from  the  pens  of  various  authors,  and 
are  bright,  instructive  and  entertaining. 


About  Giants.  By  Isabel  Smithson.  Boston  : 
D.  Lothrop  Company.  Price  60  cents.  In  this 
little  volume  Miss  Smithson  has  gathered  together 
many  curious  and  interesting  facts  relating  to 
real  giants,  or  people  who  have  grown  to  an  ex- 
traordinary size.  She  does  not  believe  that  there 
was  ever  a  race  of  giants,  but  that  those  who  are 
so-called  are  exceptional  cases,  due  to  some  freak 
of  nature.  Among  those  described  are  Cutter, 
the  Irish  giaut,  who  was  eight  feet  tall,  Tony 
Payne,  whose  height  exceeded  seven  feet,  and 
Chang,  the  Chinese  giant,  who  was  on  exhibition 
in  this  country  a  few  years  ago.  The  volume 
contains  not  only  accounts  of  giants,  but  also  of 
dwarfs,  and  is  illustrated. 


American  Authors.  By  Amanda  B.  Harris. 
Boston:  D.  Lothrop  Company.  Price  SI. 00.  This 
is  one  of  the  books  we  can  heartily  commend  to 
young  readers,  not  only  for  its  interest,  but  for 
the  information  it  contains.  All  lovers  of  books 
have  a  natural  curiosity  to  know  something  about 
their  writers,  and  the  better  the  books,  the  keener 
the  curiosity.  Miss  Harris  has  written  the  various 
chapters  of  the  volume  with  a  full  appreciation  of 
this  fact.  She  tells  us  about  the  earlier  group  of 
American  writers,  Irving,  Cooper,  Prescott,  Emer- 
son, and  Hawthorne,  all  of  whom  are  gone,  and 
also  of  some  of  those  who  came  later,  among 
them  the  Gary  sisters,  Thoreau,  Lowell,  Helen 
Hunt,  Donald  Ci.  .Mitchell  and  others.  Miss  Har- 
ris has  a  happy  way  of  imparting  information,  and 
the  boys  and  girls  into  whose  hands  this  little 
book  may  fall  will  tiud  it  pleasant  reading. 


The  Art  of  Living.  From  the  Writings  of 
Samuel  Smiles.  With  Introduetion  by  the  ven- 
erable Dr.  Peabody  of  Harvard  University,  and 
Biographical  Sketch  by  the  editor,  Carrie  Adelaide 
Cooke.  Boston  :  D.  Lothrop  Company.  Price 
$1.00. 

Samuel  Smiles  is  the  Benjamin  Franklin  of  Eng- 
land. His  sayings  have  a  similar  terseness,  apt- 
ness and  force ;  they  are  directed  to  practical  ends, 
like  Franklin's ;  they  have  the  advantage  of  being 
nearer  our  time  and  therefore  more  directly  related 
to  subjects  upon  which  practical  wisdom  is  of 
practical  use. 

Success  in  life  is  his  subject  all  through,  The  Art 
of  Living ;  and  he  confesses  on  the  very  first  page 
that  "  happiness  consists  in  the  enjoyment  of  little 
pleasures  scattered  along  the  common  path  of  life, 
which  in  the  eager  search  for  some  great  and  ex- 
citing joy  we  are  apt  to  overlook.  It  finds  delight 
in  the  performance  of  common  duties  faithfully 
and  honorably  fulfilled." 

Let  the  reader  go  back  to  that  quotation  again  and 
consider  how  contrary  it  is  to  the  spirit  that  under- 
lies the  businesses  that  are  nowadays  tempting  men 
to  sudden  fortune,  torturing  with  disappointments 
nearly  all  who  yield,  and  burdening  the  successful 
beyond  their  endurance,  shortening  lives  and  mak- 
ing them  weary  and  most  of  them  empty. 

Is  it  worth  while  to  join  the  mad  rush  for  the 
lottery ;  or  to  take  the  old  road  to  slow  success  ? 

This  book  of  the  chosen  thoughts  of  a  rare  phil- 
osopher leads  to  contentment  as  well  as  wisdom ; 
for,  when  we  choose  the  less  brilliant  course  be- 
cause we  are  sure  it  is  the  best  one,  we  have  the 
most  complete  and  lasting  repose  from  anxiety. 


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